Ascension's Shadow
by Jayiin Mistaya
Summary: The mayor's not dead, Xander's been shot, and strange shippiness awaits the scooby gang as all hell breaks loose in sunnydale...again (W/O, B/A, W/X and eventually some B/X)
1. AS1 Shots in the Dark

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Chapter One: Shots in the Dark**

Silently cursing his habitual late nights of world-savage and evil-slayage, Xander brushed his lengthening hair from in front of his eyes and tried to open the door to the basement as quietly as possible, wincing at every creak and groan from the rusty hinges. He was eager to get on with his plans for the night after high school graduation; plans painstakingly devised on the lonely walk home -- a long shower and about twelve hours of sleep, preferably in that order. 

_Damn, but I hope Dad didn't hear me. After today, the last thing I want to deal with is him._ Everything ached. Every muscle screamed in protest with every move he made. If it weren't for the overwhelming and unpleasant odors of burnt school, dead vampire, and drying blood, he would have been tempted to skip the whole shower part of the plan and move straight onto the sleeping part. 

_And then tomorrow I throw everything in the car and get the hell away from la boca del inferno for a few months._

Tip-toeing down the stairs, Xander reflexively flipped on the utility lamp he used as his major source of illumination. The glare from the unshielded bulb flickered for a moment before lighting the damp subterranean room that served as his personal sanctuary. The aromas of old bleach long gone bad burned his nose, mingling with the scents of stale laundry detergent, grease and machine lubricants. His bed and dresser were nestled up against a wall opposite his father's tool chest and across from the washer and dryer that his TV was snugged up next to. 

_Welcome home, Alexander Harris._

Stripping off his over shirt and throwing it into the trash - there really was no saving it - Xander rubbed his eyes and tried not to yawn, but stopped in mid-motion when he saw there was someone sitting cross-legged on his bed. 

The woman was clad in a blood-stained white t-shirt and torn, blood-smeared jeans. Barely as tall as Xander, her youthful face and build belied her actual age. Dark green eyes brimmed with tears, her face only partially hidden by her waist-length hair - a leftover from her high school hippie days - let down for the first time in his conscious memory. 

"Mother?" Xander asked, blinking in confusion. He hadn't called his mother 'Mom' or 'Mommy' since the first time she had turned away while his father hit him. 

_Why is she on my bed? She never comes into my room. And why is she covered in blood?_

Three thoughts lined up in his mind like the multiple choice questions on his barely passed final exams. _A) Father beat her BAD. B) Dad's dead. C) My mother is now a vampire, which means either Buffy is going to save me or I'm going to die._

Seeing that his mother was only slightly bruised and was still conscious, he dismissed the first out of hand. For the second, he doubted she would have waited for him to come home before having some kind of a huge, dramatic scene with cops and ambulances. With the obvious lack of such a scene, Xander despondently acknowledged the distinct possibility that his third theory was right, and mentally prepared himself to stake his mother, just like he had staked his best friend only three years before. 

Remembering that Buffy had decided to stay the night at the hospital at Faith's side to assuage her guilt over stabbing her sister-in-arms, the exhausted teenager knew that his chances of a last-minute rescue were slim to none. Casually sliding his hand into his pocket, Xander wrapped his fist around the slender back-up stake - solid oak - that he had routinely carried since the beginning of his sophomore year at Sunnydale High. 

_Yeah, I think I'm going to die._

"I went to your graduation today." Her voice was a strained whisper. 

_Wonderful. Didn't see that one coming. I guess she wanted to see me fail. Now what?_

She looked up at her son, her eyes a swirl of conflicting emotions; fear, pride in him, shame, determination, and no small amount of sadness and despair, eating away at her from the inside out. 

The small ember of bitterness towards his parents Xander had always nursed flared to life and caught fire on the shreds of his battered emotions, making something inside him burn. His heart raced, but his breathing slowed, and for the first time in almost a decade he wasn't awkward or uncomfortable talking to his mother. 

"And?" Shamelessly, he stripped off his t-shirt, revealing the cuts, bruises and lacerations he had received during the battle at graduation. "Make it quick, mother. I haven't slept in two days, I just helped save the world again, and I would love to get out of here by noon tomorrow." 

Usually dry wit and sarcastic jokes were his best defense against emotions, but right then he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to make her smile, or make her laugh. He wanted to make her cry, to make her feel guilty for ignoring him and everything about him since the week before kindergarten. 

_The week before I met Willow. Damn, without Will, I don't know what I would have done by now._ Even in the oppressive warmth of his subterranean bachelor pad, he shivered at the thought of losing any of his friends, especially the red-haired witch. 

"I saw what happened. What the mayor became. And I saw what your friends did. I saw Willow and her boyfriend, and that stunning blonde you kept casting glances at, and the two men in the suits, and even the dark stranger who fought like a demon...I saw them all. I even saw Cordelia trying to fight them." 

His mother took a deep breath, and Xander bit back a harsh curse, his expression going cold as he pulled out his oft-used first aid kit to clean his cuts, knowing they would fester by morning if he didn't. 

_She didn't even mention me. Willow. Buffy. Cordy. Oz. Giles. Wesley. Hell, she even saw Deadboy. But she didn't see me._

"But most of all, Alex, I saw you. I saw my son stand up and order his classmates to fire arrows and flamethrowers at monsters. I saw my only child lead the way into a fight against things that aren't supposed to exist. And all I could do was stand there and stare like I was dumb." 

This time her deep breath was a sharp gasp. "Just like I stand there when your father hits you. Or me." 

Xander winced as he poured iodine over a gash on his arm, using the pain to mask his surprise. Never once in almost twelve years had his mother actually admitted what his father did. 

"And?" He asked again. _At least she noticed me. And at least she knows what she doesn't do -- what I won't allow myself to do. I won't stand aside and let the world be swallowed by blood-sucking walking dead or a mayor with aspirations of world domination. I won't let some little kid with good parents lose what they have because I didn't do something when I could; I refuse to become what my parents are. I will be better than that, even if it's the only thing I ever do right in my entire life._

The familiar litany ran through his mind like a perverted mantra as he pulled bits of gravel and asphalt from a cut, knowing splinters, ash and gods only knew what else had infested the rest of his cuts. _I feel like someone used a cheese grater on me._

His mother stood and walked over to him with all the grace a lifetime of dance training and teaching could give a woman, and took the bandages and antiseptic from her son's hands. "Here. Let me." 

She lead him over to his bed and sat him down, cleaning his cuts and scrapes like she had when he was a child, her gentle, sure touch and soothing murmurings bringing more comfort that he would have thought possible. A lump settled in his throat and tears welled up as he met his mother's eyes. 

"And I was proud of you. I always have been, for everything you do. You worked hard to graduate...and if you do things like this often, I can see why you've been...different." 

Xander's chuckle held at least a hint of his normal humor. "You mean when I hit him back and he banished me to the basement?" 

He had first fought back the night after he had killed Jesse - killed his best friend. He had been punished, but he had barely noticed the blows. It had been when his father had punished his mother for what _he_ had done that Xander had decided never to fight back again. 

She nodded slowly and looked up at him, wishing she could take her son into her arms and let him cry for everything he had faced. Everything she had refused to see. 

"Tell me about it, Alex. Tell me what's happening. What happened today?" Her voice was soft, gentle, but with a note of pleading that tugged at heartstrings he thought he had cut years ago. "Tell me everything." 

Her hand reached up and caressed his cheek, but he turned away, ignoring the hurt in her eyes. "Everything? You want to know everything about the Mayor turning into a giant snake and eating the principal and killing my friends? You want to know everything about Sunnydale? Then sit down, 'cause this ain't gonna be one of your fantasy books where all the good guys walk away. First off, don't call me Alex. My name is Xander." 

He gave a bitter snort before turning back to his mother with a contemptuous glare. 

"My name is Xander Harris, and I help kill vampires." 

_But I can't even make my father stop hitting me. Or her._

While she doctored his wounds, he told her everything, starting with a conversation in the library he happened to overhear between the librarian and the stunning blonde he had made a fool of himself with. Twice. He told her about killing his best friend. He told her everything he had faced, from Ampata the mummy to Mrs. French the man-eating mantis. He told her about Amy the Rat, and Jack with his gangs and his bombs under the school. He told her about nightly patrols and daily research, about rogue slayers he slept with after saving their lives, and standing up to one of the most dangerous vampires to ever walk the earth - twice. He told her about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and everything he had done and would do for her -- then he told her everything Buffy had done for her, for him, and for everyone, even the pig that was his father. He told her about Giles the ex-watcher who was more of a father to him than his own father ever could be. She heard about Willow the witch and Oz the werewolf and Cordelia his ex-girlfriend. He told her about helping to save the world from Acathla and Angelus, and even about what it felt like to watch friend after friend die and be able to do nothing, even though he was already doing everything. 

When he was done, his voice was raw and dry, but his mother could barely speak. She wouldn't have believed a word of it if she hadn't seen that afternoon's 'graduation'. 

"I'm sorry." When his mother caressed his cheek this time, he leaned into her caress and let the tears fall - he couldn't hold them back any longer. He was too tired to try. Holding her son to her, Alexandra Harris let him cry, whispering in his ear. 

"You are so much more than I ever dreamed, and I am glad to have you as my son, even if that bastard I married isn't." 

He only cried harder - he had been waiting twelve years to hear her say that, and mean it. It was everything he wanted and had found in the Scooby Gang; complete and utter acceptance for who and what he was. _I can't leave tomorrow. I can't leave her with him._

It had been a long time since he had felt like protecting his mother -- he had stopped fighting back for her sake, but that was because of his own guilt; every time he fought back, it was the much worse for her. Now, the emotion was something more. 

"When it was all over, I wanted to run to you, to hold you...to tell you everything. But they swarmed around you, smiling in relief that you were alive, just as you were glad they were alive. But when you went your separate ways, the two 'watchers' you called them? went together, with Cordelia...Willow and Oz left together...the blonde walked after her dark stranger and left you alone." 

Xander shrugged. "I wasn't alone, mom. If I needed them, they would have been there." Buffy had asked him to go with her to visit Faith, but he had decided not do. "I just needed some time to unwind and get ready for tomorrow...they knew that." 

She smiled back at him. "I'm glad to hear that....I was afraid you were the outsider." 

"I'm normal-guy, research-guy, doughnut-retrieval-specialist, soldier-guy, support-guy, and the village idiot, but all of that means something with them. They want me there. If they didn't, Buffy would have sent me away a long time ago." 

Xander's mother never got a chance to answer, because the door slammed open and Sunnydale Police Captain Harris, still armed and in uniform, strode down the stairs, a belt in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. From the look on his face, he had already had at least one bottle. 

"Damn you, you worthless little sot...I know you had something to do with it...you couldn't graduate so you burnt down the fucking school...I swear boy, I am going to make you regret...I hate having to clean up those messes...so many damn bodies...so many dead....so much blood...boy, why can't you stay out of trouble....the army wanted their guns back...wanted to know where their dynamite was...and they said it was you boy....you....." 

He trailed off into a drunken belch as he stared at his wife, holding their son like a small child. His face grew cold and his voice hard-edged even through the slur of the chemical punishment he had inflicted on his metabolism. 

"Woman, get away from that boy. I've told you no coddling. My boy will be a fucking man if I have to beat every inch of manhood into him! Have you been letting him cry? No child of mind will cry. Only women cry." With each word, he took another step down the stairs. 

Alexandra did not let go of her son. 

"Woman...let go....or this is going to be nasty, for both of you." He drained a good third of the bottle in gulping swallows, and you could see the alcohol hit his system as he staggered. He threw down the bottle and belt with a crash of glass, adding the reek of bad brandy to the heady odor of the basement. 

Alexandra looked at her husband, and took a deep breath. "You're drunk. Go sleep it off and we'll talk in the morning." 

Those words made Xander's skin crawl. She had said the same words to his father the first night his father had taken the belt to him. But his heart swelled with pride; for the first time since he was a preschooler, his mother had stood up for him. 

"I love you, mom. We're gonna beat him this time, I promise." Xander whispered to his mother, stepping away from her. She smiled at him, nodding slightly. 

Their eyes met, and they winked at each other at the same time. Somehow, his father didn't seem such a monster to be feared after the fight with the Mayor that afternoon. 

"I love you too, Xander." He grinned at his mother's use of his nickname. _I'll make a Scooby out of you yet, mom._

Xander stood up and reached into the other pocket where he kept his small pocketknife. _If I can fight undead, I can fight my own drunk father._

The police officer seemed to shrug as he casually drew his gun and fired once, right between his wife's eyes. The echo of the gun reverberated for a long moment as Xander stared her as she fell, his ears ringing. Blood sprayed as she fell against his bad, soaking the sheets in deep crimson. Even drunk, Xander's father was the best sharpshooter in the Sunnydale PD. 

"Bitch." He spat on his wife's body. 

The man supposed to be a sworn protector of Sunnydale's law-abiding citizen's spat on his wife's dead body and turned his son. 

Pocketknife forgotten, Xander had pulled out his wooden stake, a weapon he was much more familiar with, facing his father as if he were a demon. To Xander, at that moment, he was. His vision clouding red, he screamed at the top of his lungs, able to only see his mother being shot, over and over again in his mind. Rage like he hadn't felt since Angelus had killed Jenny Calendar exploded in his mind, and he leapt forward with a scream. 

"Die, damn you!" 

The first shot, to his knee, brought him back to reality with the shock of lucid pain as his leg gave out under him and he fell to the floor with a dull _thud. _Groaning, he forced himself up, and lurched forward, the stake ripping through his father's shoulder with a satisfying _crunch_ and spurt of blood. 

_I think I'm going to kill him._

The second shot, to his chest, made him forget about his leg as cold pain impaled him. 

_Or he's going to kill me._

He barely felt the third and fourth shots. 

And by the time the seventh shot hit his body, he was unconscious.   


~ * ~

_Fire bad. Tree pretty._

Those four words seemed stuck on repeat in Buffy Summer's mind, drowning out every other thought. She just wished she could let them drown out feeling, too. The nonsensical phrase had almost meant something more profound when she had said them to Giles to illustrate how tired she was, but that meaning slipped her mind as soon as she sensed it was there. 

She was the Slayer. She fought. She killed. She died. She didn't muse or ponder or brood. Or, at least, she wasn't supposed to. 

Her slender fingers reached out and ran through the dark tresses framing the face of the only human she had ever wanted to kill, and she was suddenly glad for the sterile smell of antiseptic burning the scent of blood from her nose, and the dim lighting obscuring the purple bruises her fists and feet had smeared across the other girl's face. 

_I'm sorry. It should never have come to this. I should have been there for you. I should have listened more and talked less. Hell...I should have just been your friend instead of being the Slayer. But I don't think I can be anything else but the Slayer...and you somehow managed to get beyond it, I think. To enjoy it instead of hate it. Maybe you accepted it better...I don't know. I wish you were here to tell me._

The thought of going home to an empty house and the pre-heated meal her mother had doubtless left for her before going to her aunt's in Sacramento was too much for the eighteen-year-old Slayer of things that went bump in the night. All she wanted was quiet, and not to think. She could make the thoughts go away, but as soon as she did, the emotions came back, drowning her in a deluge of things she didn't know how to feel quite yet. 

Her job. Her duty. Her sacred obligation, had killed them all and left her high school in smoldering ashes, and an entire senior class without diplomas. Diplomas and cheers and happy memories replaced with the lifelong nightmares of seeing friends and family killed by things like shape-shifting demonic mayors and vampires that she, Elizabeth Anne 'Buffy' Summers was supposed to keep them from knowing even existed. And she had failed. All of them had fought beside her, and too many had died, because she had failed. Because she wasn't ready. 

_To each generation there is born one girl in all the world..._

But she'd changed that too, hadn't she? 

There were now two girls, and one of them, by her hands, was dying by inches. _It's odd...she loved the Mayor because he loved her. He wanted her, wanted to give her everything she deserved and then some, just because she was willing to help him. It didn't matter to him why, he just wanted to see her smile and feel better. And I used that love -- the love of the one person who had ever accepted her, to kill him. To burn him alive in the place she should have been most accepted, because I refused to try harder, to listen more and even to want to try again._

The rhythmic beep of her monitors and the steady hiss of her respirator was a constant reminder of her failure. Buffy couldn't help but wonder if everyone that had died that afternoon could have been spared if she had dared to try to help her sister-in-arms just a little more. 

The knife was heavy in her jacket...so were Faith's words in the dream that had haunted her since Angel and taken her blood to heal himself. The dream she hoped she and Faith had shared. 

_I need to talk to Xander._

That thought startled her. Usually, she wanted to talk to Willow, or to Giles, or even to Angel. But Xander was the first one that came to her mind. _Because he was the only one of use who was willing to risk everything to try to save her, to bring her back into the fold. He always does that...he never looks away, never leaves someone if they need him. No matter what it does to him._

_I'll let him sleep, for now. He did as much as anyone today, and needs the chance to recharge. He can soothe my guilty conscience tomorrow._

She stared out the window at the night sky, still blurred from the ash and smoke from the fire at the high school. A fire she had helped make. Ironically enough, the gym was still standing and in decent condition. There was a small amount of perverted satisfaction that she had not broken her promise to the late Mr. Flutie; she hadn't burnt down the gym.  
  
She had at least confirmed that much on her last sweeps through the battleground in the aftermath -- she had been exhausted and hadn't wanted to patrol, but she had. Quickly, and not a thoroughly as she should have, but she had patrolled. 

_And there was nothing. No one. Not one demon, not one vampire, not even an annoyed raccoon hunting for scraps. I know we didn't get all the vamps. _

The thought did not sit well with the Slayer. 

Buffy shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair, her hand trailing down Faith's arm to clasp her hand gently, her slightly burnt diploma crinkling inside her jacket. Distantly, she wondered how long it had taken Giles to find that one piece of paper amongst the burnt wreckage he had made of his beloved library. _I have to remember to thank him. For everything._

"We won." Her voice sounded flat, sucked into the darkness around her. She refused to muse on the symbolism there...she didn't want to think that hard. "I still want to believe that you told me how to do it. That somewhere inside you, you forgave me and wanted to be a Slayer again." 

As she expected, there was no response. 

"Thank you." 

Buffy closed her eyes, trying to force herself to rest and not to dream, not to see the faces of those she didn't save -- some of them had even taken up arms and fought for her. With her. 

Quiet stillness settled around her, settling in for the night as the hospital seemed to unwind. There was a release of tension in the air, as if Sunnydale breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

Until she heard the voices. 

"....victim is male, between seventeen and twenty....severe trauma...in shock....six gunshot wounds to the chest and torso, one to the leg...blood loss near critical..." 

Buffy stood, something tingling at the back of her mind, her Slayer-sense' going wild, but not in warning. At least, not the warning she was used to -- there was no great demon coming to destroy the world, or vampire to suck her blood...but something was happening. Something was wrong. 

"...woman shot in the head on the bed....Alexandra Harris...already dead....second victim possibly her son....no ID....don't know who he is!" The frustration in the doctor's voices was lost on her as the fear settled in with an icy shock. 

_Harris. Seventeen to twenty years old. Shot. Blood loss near critical..._

Buffy didn't remember jumping from the chair. She didn't remember running into the hallway, or shoving past the nurse coming to check on Faith. She did remember running up alongside the stretcher being rushed towards the ER, and looking at the familiar face, twisted in cold fury that was pale from the loss of blood. 

_Xander._

"Ma'am, please, get out of our way! He's dying!" 

Buffy resisted the sudden urge to kick the paramedic, and instead shot back. "Alexander LaVelle Harris, eighteen years of age. Blood type AB positive, I think." 

She didn't pause to think about it; they had been to the hospital so many times before, filled out forms time and again, so that they knew each other in and out. She could have done the same for Willow, or Giles. 

The man's head shot around to look at her. "You think? Who are you? Are you family?" 

Buffy shook her head, lank blonde hair getting in her face. Brushing it away, she looked at the medic. "Buffy Summers. Friend. But I might as well be family. And he's been here before...contact name either Joyce Summers or Rupert Giles...." 

The shock was setting in. Xander was dying. He had been shot. Seven times. 

Guilt was the first thing she felt -- she should have been there; she was the Slayer and he was her friend. She should have protected him against a gun the same as she would against a demon. 

_What am I...are we....going to do without him? He's been there since the beginning...he never left. He's been Willow's best friend for forever..._

_Oh god...Willow...I have to call Willow...Giles, Oz....and lord help me Cordelia...._

One thought surfaced above the emotional morass. 

Someone was going to be very sorry they ever touched a gun. 

She felt it slowly begin, starting with the cold, creeping, burning rage that ate her alive every night. Senses sharpened and fatigue vanished as her body adjusted itself, opened itself to the power, the strength, speed, skill and raw, unadulterated predatory cunning that was the Slayer. 

"What happened?" Her voice was calmer now. 

The paramedic shrugged as he handed her a clipboard and thick medical file an orderly had just run over to him. " 'Dunno. Neighbor called the cops when he heard gunshots. Police got there to find their own captain getting drunk at his kitchen table, his firearm on the counter, all eight shots fired. Downstairs they found his wife and the son they didn't even know he had." 

_His own father. His mother...._

_oh god...._

Orderlies came as she scanned the paperwork, knowing it would wait for Giles to fill out. They wheeled Xander away towards two waiting doctors...only when he was gone did she realize how fast everything had happened until that point. Still stunned and once again exhausted, Buffy made her way over to the counter where the courtesy phone waited, and started dialing, her mind stuck on repeat. 

_Fire bad. Tree pretty._   


~ * ~

It took them all night to put the fires out. 

By the time the firefighters finally had the blaze under control, most of Sunnydale High School was a flame-gutted wreck, no few of the bodies thought to be dead students burnt beyond recognition. Police and emergency crews moved among the rubble in a state of shock, finding more bodies and more dead than anyone had suspected silently thankful that even a few had made it alive. 

Investigators refused to ask themselves what happened, trying as hard as they could to find a cause for the fire that had nothing to do with an evil mayor attempting to Ascend to Demon-hood. And for some reason, none of the students they questioned were willing to give any answers. No one knew how to prove anything about the explosion, and most everyone wanted to escape the area thick with the scents of ash, burnt plastic and warped metal, and worst of all, the aroma of crisped flesh. 

By the time midnight rolled around, the site had cleared of all but the last few firefighters and police remaining to set up a barricade. They died in a matter of moments, the remaining vampires stepping into the night and regaining their strength from the hapless public servants. 

For a long moment after, there was silence. 

The rubble creaked. It was a fairly impressive pile of rubble, several feet high, and marred black by fire, jagged edges everywhere from the explosion. The explosives had been imperfectly set; the force of the blast had expanded outward, ripping apart the walls and support of the library, and consequently, much of the building it was in. The remnants of the walls and the ceiling had collapsed in an expanding heap, and the salvage workers had only piled it all up, preferring to wait until the light of day to sort through it all. But despite their haste, it was a well built pile of rubble, not given to a great deal of shifting or falling over.

But the rubble creaked.

The vampires stood around it, watching stoically, not sure what they were seeing. But they had all felt the call, burning their blood, the Beast inside them screeching and calling for them to go to him.

The creaking grew louder, into a groaning, and the scent of burning filled the air, as the rubble disintegrated, falling apart into a carbon dust without the flames to consume it. Layer by layer, the rubble turned to ash, black and gray powder smoldering over the blast zone, floating in the air and dusting the bodies of both the dead and the Vampires in a fine coat of grit.

From the ash, a man stood, his honest face contorted in dismay. 

"That was an expensive suit! I think I'll just have to bill her for that too!" 

The seven remaining vampires chuckled nervously, silently hoping that he would not take that afternoon's failure out on any of them; he was not known for his merciful generosity in demonic circles. Rather, he was feared for what he was even before the Ascension. 

He turned, his eyes narrowing at one of them, a female -- previously a secretary in the office of the Mayor, now a vampire clad in office-wear that one might see in a bad porn move. She dashed forward, grabbing a fire blanket from the body of a dead fireman, and held it out to him.

He coughed.

Fearfully, she wrapped it around his soot-streaked, battered and cut body, stepping away from him as soon as she could. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he smiled gently at all of them.

"Well, this is a bit of a pickle, isn't it? I don't suppose any of you thought to bring me clothes, or at least a car?"

The vampires all looked at each other accusingly, a few daring to grumble softly.

He said nothing, just looked at them for a long moment.

"Well, go! Get me suitable clothing and transportation!"

The vampires still stood there, looking at each other, waiting for someone else to dare admit it was their mistake by running to correct it.

"I knew it wasn't that easy." The deep voice held a note of smooth arrogance hiding despairing resignation. Torment etched every word as the dark clad figure stepped out from the shadows, his hand clasping a sword, his face locked into a grim grimace of dark promises for anything that dared cross his path. The man and the cursed vampire knew each other, all too well. Both licked their lips in anticipation of finishing the fight they had begun at the hospital the night before. "I knew you wouldn't die that easy." 

"This isn't really about us, you know. It's about them. The humans. Who gets to rule them, protect them or destroy them" Wilkins' voice carried over the silence with ease, his piercing eyes seeing through Angel's mask of emotions as easily as they read the words of forgotten spells and arcane mysteries painted on his tormented soul. "It's about them, but we fight the war." 

"We should finish this. Send your enforcers home." Angel gestured to the vampires contemptuously, knowing right then they were no match for him; the blood of a Slayer burned hot and strong inside him, giving him a power and strength he had never felt before. _This is why Spike killed them. This power...it's almost too much. It's almost enough to make me want to let go._

The mayor smiled. "You feel it, don't you? Her blood, inside you, making you wonder what you gave up when you fought against the demon inside." 

Seeing that their master didn't order them to stay, the vampires ran, knowing it was the one chance they had to survive; and if anything, the survival instinct in vampires ran deeper and stronger than it did even in humans. Above them, stars were hidden by clouds of smoke and ash and at their feet broken and spent weapons littered the battlefield. 

The Slayer and her allies had won, but they had also lost, because the demon was still alive. The Mayor of Sunnydale stood slowly, his hands turning to face Angel. The air seemed to thicken around him as his eyes lit up and lines of electric blue fire wrapped around his fingertips. Calling upon his power reminded the Mayor that, although not in demonic form, few could stand before him and survive. Of course, he _wanted _Angel to survive, didn't he? 

Clouds blew in quickly as an unnatural rain fell, putting out the remaining fires. Mayor Wilkins didn't like his town on fire, not one bit. 

Night's darkness seemed to thicken as Wilkins' smiled at Angel.  


~ * ~

Lighting flashed, streaking across the newborn clouds that hid the stars, burning her eyes. The woman leapt back, feeling stinging needles of cold rain punish her bare skin. Bare feet scrambled across sharp stones and broken glass, leaving streaks of blood to be washed away into the gutters of Sunnydale, the scent tempting to the vampiric denizens of that unlit subterranean world. 

The Slayer rested, but her enemies walked the night, eager for the violence she had denied them. 

The woman ran, aware that nothing was behind her, but she had to run. The face in her mind taunted with promises of death and worse, laughing and mocking her every effort to escape. Dark eyes peered into her and saw that fear and drank of it deeply, drawing every aspect of it out of her until there was nothing but a numb resignation of what was to come. 

But still she ran. 

Even in Sunnydale, the sight of a naked woman running wild through the streets as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels was not that usual a sight, but people had long since learned to ignore such things and blissfully allowed their subconscious to rationalize away what would soon be remembered as nothing more than a half-glimpsed nightmare or a bit of horrific deja-vu from the B-rate horror movie they could never quite remember the title of. 

Long dark hair was slicked to her back -- it felt strange to have long hair. She was used to short locks that tickled her ears. Desperate panic ate away reason, devouring any form of coherent thought, except one. Kind eyes, smiling at her with a sadness she had helped put there. Kind eyes and kinder hands and a gentle heart that begged for someone to share its burden.... 

Her pace leveled out, her breathing evened. She knew where she was going. Where she needed to be. He couldn't get her there. He couldn't. 

Shivering in the rain, she felt the call of her people coursing through her blood, hotter and stronger than ever, calling on her to shout a warning no one would hear. But she couldn't. Her debt had to be re-paid. 

An image of a petite blonde flickered in her mind at the side of the gentle man -- she was safe with them. Safe. 

The scream pierced the night with a howling pain that refused to stop echoing through her. Around her, the whole town seemed to stop and turn toward the steam and smoke rising from the devastated high school and wait to see what walked out of the mist. 

She ran faster.   
  


**Chapter Two: Fast Changes**

Pacing across the all-too-familiar waiting room, the all-too-familiar faces of the orderlies and nurses she had seen time and time before smiling reassuringly at the anxious blonde, knowing from experience nothing they said or did would calm her down until whoever she was waiting for either got better or she collapsed from exhaustion. 

Not that any of them really wanted to talk to her much; there were too many questions, too many things she might tell them that they were afraid to know.

Not even 24-hours after she had been released for massive blood loss, her friend had been brought in for multiple gunshot wounds. 

The doctors refused to dwell on what made this close-knit group of teenagers and their librarian patron so catastrophe prone. They really didn't want to know. 

Clenching and unclenching her fists, Buffy shook her head, and listened to the rain drumming on the windows of the hospital. _Willow will be here soon. If anyone can wake him up and make him better just by being here, it's her. She's his best friend. Hell, if we lose him, we'll lose Willow too...and I don't know what I would do without either of them._

_Especially now that Angel's gone._

That thought sent a chill down her spine. Biting down on the urge to cry, or barge in on the doctors trying to save Xander's life, Buffy bit her lower lip and paced just that much faster. 

Enhanced hearing, eyesight, sense of smell, and touch; super-speed and super-strength. Inherited skills, knowledge and a set of instincts, her 'spider-sense' that made it impossible for creatures that went 'bump' in the night and meant it to sneak up on her -- all that gave her the powers, the body, the mind to be a Slayer and save the world, time and again. 

But it was her friends and family that were her heart; they gave her the will to fight, the spirit that hadn't broken yet. If not for them, she would have been dead and the world destroyed years ago, because without them, she would have never picked back up a stake or grown to be the Slayer -- the woman -- she was right then. 

Wiping away her tears, she sniffed and hugged herself, wishing Willow would hurry up and get there. She knew the sudden thunderstorm was a problem for drivers, and Oz would never endanger Willow, which meant he was taking it slow and safe on the way to the hospital. 

_And Wills is probably going frantically insane with worry right now._

She stared at the doors for a long moment, begging them to open and have the red-headed witch and her boyfriend come running through the doors, soaking wet. Buffy knew Oz would have his stoic calm that the group had come to lean on so much recently and Willow would be inseparable from Xander's side until he woke up. Giles would be the eye of the hurricane, holding down the fort wherever it was needed. She was even reasonably sure Cordelia would come and help with donut and fast-food runs, and take her turn at Xander's side. Buffy herself would go out and slay everything slayable, living or dead, that dared cross her path, knowing that she could never slay the human trash that had nearly killed one of her best friends. 

But one thing was etched in stone; they would not leave Xander to wake up alone. 

Around her orderlies scurried around her, leading children and adults in various stages of physical harm from one place to another, she stood and stared out the doors, a steadily sinking feeling that something else was going horribly wrong. 

She watched the raindrops explode against the glass panes for another moment before turning around, suddenly desperate for coffee. She heard the doors slide open and closed, and felt the biting wind carry a few droplets of rain inside to splatter against her cheek and neck. Whirling around, hoping to see Willow, Buffy stopped dead in her tracks, her breath caught in her throat. 

Somehow untouched by the rain, the black-clad figure walked towards her, his broad shoulders and lean, muscled frame carrying him closer with the controlled grace of a born warrior; a hunter. The dark coat draped over him made his presence all the more powerful. He reached her, and his hands slid up her arms to wrap around her back and pull her close. Limply sagging against him, she clutched his shirt. 

"Angel?" 

He pulled her down next to him on a nearby bench, holding her tightly to him. His deep voice rumbled in her ears. "Yeah. I couldn't leave...and I had to come see you. It took me awhile to find you...but I'm here." 

_He came back..._

Curling closer to him, she sank into his embrace, the stress evaporating into thin air just like it did every time he touched her. "I'm glad your here. Thank you..." 

_He came back...._

He shrugged and kissed her slowly, gently. "You know I love you. I couldn't just leave you behind...not after what you did for me." 

Smiling into him, Buffy ran her hand through his hair as he nuzzled into her neck. She indulged herself for a moment, letting herself get lost in the smell and feel of him holding her. The sights, sounds and smells of the waiting room blended together into a tapestry of sensation, all surrounding him. _He came back. For me._

"Xander's been shot." 

The words came out feeling empty and hollow. His head came up and he looked into her eyes intently, stealing her breath. "Is he all right?" 

Buffy shook her head. "No. Not really. He's in surgery right now...they don't know if he'll make it." 

Gently stroking her hair back, his fingertips played down her back. "I'm sorry....I really am. If there's anything....?" 

She shook her head and looked at a clock. "No...not right now. You'd better go...I don't think it's a good idea for you to be here, not after you and the Mayor fighting last time...you could patrol...I tried, but I didn't do a very good job..." She paused biting her lower lip for a long, silent moment before leaning over and kissing him, letting her mouth and tongue mesh with his. 

"You're warm..." She whispered. He was almost never warm when he kissed her; the cows blood he often drank couldn't keep him warm like human blood could. 

He nodded slowly. "Your blood, beloved...keeps me warm all over. I'll be back to see you later, all right?" 

Gathering her to him, Angel stood and set her down carefully, letting his arms brush the sides of her breasts, where his fingertips lightly grazed, as if accidentally. Gasping quietly, she arched into him, but he pretended not to notice. Leaning over, he kissed her forehead, whispering, 

"Later, lover...." 

~ * ~

Willow stood under the cold rain, letting it soak through her coat and clothes and mingle with the tears running down her face. She watched Oz's van roar away from her house, and tried to let the rain wash away the pain with it. Xander needed her; she didn't have time to worry about Oz's sudden issues. 

She just wished it didn't hurt so much. 

_He left me because I wanted to see Xander. Why did he do that...Oz doesn't do stuff like that...that's why I love him...he's supportive...._

_but there was the fluke and he might still be mad, but this is Oz and Oz understands this sort of stuff and he doesn't act like this so something has to be wrong..._

_something's wrong with Oz..._

The harsh reality of that idea settled in the pit of her stomach right next to the place where she kept her pain over Xander being shot. 

_Something's wrong with him and he needs me but Xander might be dead and he might need me more but I love Oz.... _Willow took a deep breath. _Stop babbling. Xander will be fine. The cab will be here soon and you will get to see him soon. When you get home, call Oz...then you can help him._

_And Buffy is at the hospital. I can always talk to Buffy. _

Even as she stood in the rain, waiting for her cab, she watched for Oz's van to pull up and take her to her best friend. But by the time the cab came, there was still no sign of Oz. The relentless rain had washed away even the tire-tracks he had made pulling out of her driveway. Soaked and chilled to the bone, unable to feel her fingers or her toes, Willow waited in the dark, her numb fingertips caressing the leather pouch she wore around her wrist, counting on it to protect her from harm. It had that afternoon; the Mayor's fire had washed harmlessly over her protective spell, and the attacking vampires hadn't been able to reach through the barrier the herbs and symbols had created -- but she had been able to reach them. 

Even through all her pain and despair, she was proud of herself for having been able protect herself. A slight smile came to her thin face as she remembered something she needed to tell Xander. _I know I saw his mother there, in the crowd of proud parents, watching her son graduate. And I know I saw her helping the paramedics later, same as Xander._

_And I bet Xander doesn't know I saw him helping the paramedics, either. He didn't tell any of us what he did after we left, but I saw him._

Pulling her coat tighter around herself, more to protect her from the pain inside than the rain outside, her smile grew a little. Silently helping the medics was typical of Xander. Ignoring his own aches, pains and exhaustion, he had unflaggingly done menial grunt-work, clearing rubble and wielding a hammer so the trained help could spend their time and energy on saving the wounded. She had watched from the peace of Oz's van as they sent him home. Oz had watched her watch him, his arm around her waist, content to let her do what she needed. 

Tears threatened again, and Willow didn't try to fight them. The salty pain was washed away in the rain, leaving her empty and cold. _Now Xander is hurt and Oz is mad at me and I can't do anything about either of them._

Willow stared up at the clouds marring the sky, watching flickers of lightning play from cloud to cloud, wondering where the moon was hidden behind all that. She stared at the opaque grayness, wondering if there were answers up there that she could find.

"Hey kid, get in before you get washed away."

Blinking, Willow looked away from the sky and saw the yellow cab sitting in front of her, the motor's growl subdued behind the rain. Like the sound of bullets, rain drops hammered the body of the car, spraying the grizzled, gray-haired driver.

Willow silently did as she was told, shivering as she finally realized she was cold. The driver threw her a towel and turned the heater on full. "Where to, red?" 

Swallowing hard, Willow forced her voice to be loud enough he could hear her. "Sunnydale General." 

Simply nodded, the cabbie pulled out into the streets, heading for Sunnydale General Hospital. She didn't notice that he didn't turn on the meter. Willow could have told him a half-dozen ways to get there; she'd been there enough times after her own coma, for check-ups and follow-ups and tests. It had usually been Xander who drove her, because Oz invariably had band practice. Still crying, Willow watched the rain through the windows, a detached part of her mind hoping the storm would wash away whatever evidence remained of their arson at the blown-out high school. 

"You okay, kid?" The cabbie asked, sounding genuinely concerned. She saw him fumble with something by his seat and saw out of the corner of her eye it was a wooden cross that doubled as a stake. 

_Smart man. He knows something of what's up in this town._

Willow smiled weakly. "No. My best friend's been shot and my boyfriend is mad at me because I want to go see him..." She sniffed, and swallowed hard. The cabbie smiled, his gray eyes easing some of her tension. "Red, if your boyfriend loves ya', he'll get over it. We men are a territorial beasties, and male best friends are the worse threats...there's nothing I can think of that can scare one of us more when we love a gal. And then when you think about the Florence Nightingale complex you girls get about us guys...well, we get stupid. Ain't no excuse, but probably the truth." 

They drove in silence for a long time, the rain causing traffic to slow. But as the hospital came into sight, the cabbie looked back at her, clearing his throat. "eh, red, about your friend...who shot 'im? Do ya' know? 'Cause there are some..." he coughed, and thought for a moment. "Odd people in Sunnydale who like to hurt people." 

Willow nodded slowly, and took a breath to compose herself before answering. _He knows, and he wants to warn me in case Xander's going to rise again._ "His father. He was drunk...he...he shot Xander's mother first....and then Xander..." 

There was no way for her to hold it in anymore. Willow started sobbing quietly, hugging herself. The cabbie stopped at a red light and turned around to face her. "It's all right, red. I didn't mean to upset you...just ignore what I said. Name's Charlie..." 

Willow nodded. "I'm Willow..." she swallowed again. "Thank you, Charlie." 

They drove in silence for awhile, and Willow used his towel to try to dry her hair a little bit. When they reached the Hospital, Charlie looked at her and smiled warmly. 

"Red...the cab number is 63. This ride's free, and if you need a lift, call 'em and ask for me by name and number. It can get a little dangerous out here at night..." 

Willow smiled and leaned in towards him, her green eyes twinkling. "Thank you, Charlie. And I know about those oddly dangerous people out there -- I help fight them." 

Feeling somewhat proud of herself and slightly less scared, Willow Rosenberg walked towards the hospital. 

~ * ~

Buffy watched Willow stumble into the waiting room seconds after Angel had faded away into the background. Silent tears coursing down her face, the redhead sat next to her best friend, shivering. 

Green eyes met hazel, and Willow nodded. There wasn't any news yet. Wordlessly, Buffy grabbed an orderly, and looked at Willow. Startled, the orderly stopped and knelt down in front of the chilled, haggard girl. 

"Are you here to get treated?" 

Willow shook her head. "I don't look that bad, do I?" The orderly pursed his lips, his eyes darting around the slowly emptying room. Willow touched his shoulder. "I'm fine...I'm just here to see if my friend is all right...." 

Somehow, she managed to stay calm. 

The orderly nodded, and grabbed a passing nurse, muttering something to her. The nurse glared at the orderly -- usually she gave the orders to the orderlies, not the other way around, but once glance at Willow sent her off at a determined clip. "She'll get you some clean clothes; we have plenty of spares around here. There's a bathroom you can use to change, and I'll bring you some tea...we ran out of coffee a couple of hours ago." He yawned, showing the lack. "With what happened at the school today, we're pretty busy..." 

For the second time the evening, a stranger had helped her for no reason. She looked up at him. "Thank you...." 

He smiled. "I'm glad to help...for the first time today, I can actually do some good, and know it helps." 

Yawning again, he walked off to get them both tea. 

"Where's Oz?" Buffy asked, taking Willow's hands in her own to warm them. Willow scoot closer to Buffy, leaning her head on the Slayer's shoulder, grateful for both the warmth and the comfort. 

"He had someplace to be, but he might stop in later after Xander is awake." _I hope._

Buffy nodded, barely noticing the redhead was dripping on her. She managed a wan smile, surprised at herself. She felt she should have been jumping for joy with her good news, but she wasn't. "I have good news, though...Angel came back, and I think he's going to stay. To try to let us work this all out..." 

After seeing the stricken look on Willow's face, Buffy wondered about the wisdom of telling her right then. Willow forced herself to smile. "I'm glad...I'm glad he's staying for you Buffy. You deserve happiness." 

Buffy held her friend for a moment. "So do you. And I don't think Oz was happy about you coming here, was he?" 

Green eyes met hazel again. "Not now, Buffy. Please?" 

Before Buffy could answer, the orderly showed up with two large cups of hot tea and dry clothes for Willow. "Here you go...I hope you get warmed up and feel better. Hey, you two are here with that Harris kid, right?" 

Willow nodded weakly, sipping at the tea, her shoulder still touching Buffy's. Buffy looked up at him. "Yeah, we are. You have news?" 

The orderly nodded slowly, with a sigh. "Well, Miss Summers, all I know is bureaucratic. No one could reach Joyce Summers or Rupert Giles this evening, so you're officially his representative since you checked him in this evening. He has an aunt in San Francisco, but she said she wouldn't be able to make it down. And if he goes into Intensive Care before either one of them contacts us, then you will remain his representative until he's capable of informed and rational decisions. Do you understand what that means?" 

Setting her tea down to keep her suddenly shaking hands from spilling it all over her and Willow, Buffy nodded slowly. "I think so." 

"Good." The orderly smiled, his tired face lighting up as he had one less thing do to. "Hey...he'll make it. He's tough. You all are." 

_And he would be in a position to know....he's seen us all here._

As the orderly walked away, Willow stood up to go change with a sigh. "Buffy....now I'm freaked...no Giles? Can you try to call him?" 

Buffy nodded, taking a careful sip of her tea. "I need to anyway. I can't be in charge of Xander...that would just be...well, bad." 

Shivering, Willow dashed towards the bathroom to get changed. 

_Someone has to find Giles. Soon. I don't like the feeling of this, not at all._

For the second time that night, Buffy found herself at the courtesy phone dialing Cordelia's number. 

~ * ~

"How can you be so bloody calm?" 

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce wrung his hands and stared up at the sky for the umpteenth time, blinking cold droplets of rain out of his eyes, not daring to hope the sudden change in weather would provide a reprieve for the two men waiting on a private landing strip near Sunnydale's small international airport. 

"By not panicking." The older of the two scratched idly at his two-day stubble that was regrettably more white than brown. "Most likely, we shall never see Sunnydale or any of them again. And most likely, we can do nothing about it." 

It wasn't as if both of them hadn't thought about running, and hiding. Both had the skills to do so, the knowledge to disappear and never be found, even by the men they were waiting for -- but if they did that, even that slim chance of coming home would be lost. 

Both men sitting there found themselves thinking the same detached thought. _When did Sunnydale become home?_

Both were dressed the same, in dark suits and overcoats, carrying matching attaché cases that held the diaries both men had so painstakingly recorded. The handwritten words chronicled the purpose of their lives from the moment of first contact to the moment the phone call had come, severing that relationship that only the most dedicated personal athletes and their personal coaches might have understood. Those same lovingly crafted words reduced heroines from living, breathing, vibrant young women that they wanted to guide and teach reduced to ink smeared on expensive paper for the edification of men who would never in their lives have the honor of meeting anyone like the girls the two men were being forced to leave behind. 

Both men understood the exquisite price and pain of loyalty, and had stood toe-to-toe with things their class and creed were never supposed to see face to face and had walked away, but not unscathed. 

Both men were also considered abject failures. 

Rupert Giles hung his head, not really wanting to stare up and wait for the plane that would take him back to England and deliver the man who would take charge of the girl that had become his daughter, in fact if not in name. That same place in his gut that told him he might never see her again also told him that this man would try to break her and mold her into what _he_ thought she should be; that he would take away her friends and her family and leave her with nothing but the sacred duty that had already taken so much from her. 

_And I can do nothing but sit here in the rain and wait. Anything more and I would hurt her cause far more than I would help._

Wesley sat down next to him with a sigh of his own. "I am going to miss America, Rupert." 

Giles shrugged his shoulders, and patted the younger man's shoulders. "You're going to miss them almost as much as I am...if only because they were honest with you. When you acted like a man, they respected you. When you acted like a fool, they laughed at you." 

Wesley sighed again, thinking that as gestures went, it wasn't as satisfying as it used to be. "Do you think there's still time to run?" 

The low whine of a jet plane coming in for a landing answered that question for them both. 

Wesley looked at his comrade in arms, his expressive face downcast, his aristocratic features making him look like a pouting child. "Why did they take us back?" 

Giles shrugged. "You mean, 'why did they draft us back into the Council'?" His eyes bored through the younger man with a cunning edge. Every moment they waited, Rupert Giles became less and less a high school librarian and became more and more a harder, sharper man that had none of the simple affectations of the almost foppish persona Wesley had become accustomed to. "They brought us back because we lost both Slayers. Whoever replaces us will be true-bred Council with none of our modern or liberal leanings. He will take Buffy in hand and try to force her into becoming what the Council feels a Slayer should be, by any means he can. And to do that, we need to be out of the way." 

Remembering the tenacious stubbornness of the Slayer, Wesley nodded, silently smug, knowing whoever the Council would send would fail far more ignobly and abjectly than he had. 

"I wish all the luck in the world to him, whoever he is. He'll need it." 

Giles stood, allowing himself a few moments of regret while the plane slowly circled, preparing for it's final approach. His thoughts automatically went to the young men and women he had helped become a cohesive fighting force against creatures that so many refused to believe existed. 

Buffy Summers; his very first Slayer, and the girl he thought of as a daughter in the most private recesses of his heart. He had watched her mature from a bitter and angry teenager into a young woman he could be proud of, staying true to her sacred duty by staying true to herself. A warrior at heart, she was also one of the best people he knew. 

Willow Rosenberg; shy hacker and budding witch, he had seen her go through emotional turmoil and trauma that would have destroyed people twice her age, but somehow she kept her innocence and kept her laughed, while somehow becoming the strong backbone of the 'Scooby Gang' 

Xander Harris; if there was any man Giles would want as a son, it would have been him. Selfless in his devotion to his friends, Xander fought wars both at home and at school to be allowed to be himself. Although he never allowed the grim reality of any situation to win out against optimism and hope, Xander was still searching for his own path. 

Cordelia Chase was a young woman with her own agenda and her plans in life but saw something she knew she had to be involved in, merely because it was right thing to do, regardless of what she felt about the people who were already involved. If just for that, he was proud to have known her and fought at her side. 

Oz and Angel were strong warriors for the side of humanity, giving everything they had and more without a word of complaint -- all to stand by the women they loved more than life itself. Both had sacrificed parts of their own humanity, parts of themselves they could never get back fighting the war Giles had brought to Sunnydale, intent on pushing back the forces of darkness that wanted to take the world away from humans. 

_I could not have asked or hoped for better. Where I thought I had one reluctant Slayer, I found what turned out to be the special forces humanity was looking for. Even without me, they will not falter or fall; and not even this new Watcher will be able to separate them._

And then there was his Dark Slayer; Faith. Giles knew that Buffy felt her fallen sister had helped her defeat the Mayor in the end, but he couldn't be for sure. Still, he wished there had been more he could have done to help her; more he could have done to heal her. Now, there was nothing he could do except take precautions that would prevent the Watchers' Council from being able to reach her until she woke from her coma. 

_Not even they can undo what I have done now._

Giles felt the thunderclap that sent the plane spiraling higher into the sky, but knew the Council pilot would eventually brave the storm and land; they felt this had to be done _now_ before things got too out of hand. But he had taken _other_ precautions that would keep the Watchers' Council from controlling his Slayer and her friends too much; there was very little the Council could do to prevent what he had set in motion as soon as he had received the phone call from Quentin Travers, once his superior in Council hierarchy. 

A slight smile crossed his face. _Yes, yes, I've protected them as best I can. Now they just have to use what I've left them._

The sound of squealing tires on wet pavement brought him out of his brooding. He turned to see Cordelia running towards them, dressed in only jeans, sneakers and and raincoat, make-up apparently forgotten and her hair streaming out wildly behind her. Her car was parked at an angle, the driver's door left open.

"Giles! Xander's been shot!" 

Skidding to a breathless halt in front of him, Cordelia waited for him to join her in her panic, and rush with her to the hospital. Instead, Giles took a deep breath and concentrated on not laughing. 

_Of all the dangerous and foolhardy things the boy has done, he gets **shot**?_

Taking a deep breath, Giles met Cordelia's gaze evenly. "How did you find us?" He stopped, and shook his head. "Never mind that. Just go; you can't be here when that plane lands, or you'll be taking a one way trip to England." 

Cordelia stared at him as if he were speaking greek. "Xander has been shot and all you can do ask me to leave?! And what do you mean a trip to England?!" 

Giles nodded, motioning at Wesley to keep quiet. "In a matter of minutes, a plane carrying Buffy's new Watcher will land and take Wesley and myself back to England. The Council, you see, has NOT accepted Buffy's resignation, and will no longer allow me to be an influence on her life. No one is supposed to know this yet; anyone here with us will be taken to England to prevent Buffy from learning of it. If you leave now, then you can still get to Buffy and warn her. 

"And I have faith that all of you can take very good care of Xander, and whoever it was who shot him." 

Cordelia leveled a heated glare at Giles. "It was his own father -- I knew I never liked the man! And I'm not leaving you two here to be taken back. Get in my car and let's go, now!" 

They were having to shout to be able to hear over the wind of the VOTL (Vertical Take-off and Landing) plane slowly descending. 

"No time! Go, now!" 

Wesley turned and shouted. "Too late!" 

Roaring jet engines turned droplets of cold rain into icy missiles pummeling the three of them. Dashing back towards Cordelia's car, they watched with growing apprehension as the sleek Council jet settled down onto it's landing gear with the hissing whine of pneumatic shocks and the deafening thunder of the wing-mounted turbines. 

Everything settled for a moment, a heavy stillness falling as slowly as the drizzling rain. An eternity of seconds later, the hatch on the plane fell open, the gangway being lowered by softly whirring gears. Only one man strode down, but he was enough. 

Slender and lean, he moved with an assurance and ease that spoke of an arrogant assurance that made Giles want to grind his teeth. Brown hair and gray eyes melted into the darkness of the landing strip, but his youthful aristocratic face was more grating than Wesley's prattle. 

"Rupert Giles? Wesley Windham-Pryce? My name is Andrew St. Clair. The Watcher's Council has sent me to take over as the active Watcher for Elizabeth Summers and 'Faith'. As soon as I have your diaries, you and your young lady there can be on your way back to England." 

As he spoke, he descended the gangway, smiling amiably with all the smug arrogance someone who knows they cannot be touched can have. Looking to Wesley, he indicated Cordelia with a tilt of his head. "Your apprentice, I presume?" 

Giles stepped forward as St. Clair's feet touched the asphalt. "Not his. Mine." 

Nodding, the new Watcher shrugged and offered his hand to shake. "Very well then. I have to say, gentlemen, it is an honor to meet you." 

Wesley nodded, and shook the proffered hand, responding dryly. "I'm sure it is. It's not often you get to meet the two men who lost two Slayers." 

Giles eyes grew cold, and his body language changed, almost as if his edge was 'sharpened'. He stared hard at St. Clair, and spoke slowly. "Don't dare to take from her anything. Do not dare to hurt her in any way. If you do, I will find you.

Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Cordelia's eyes, silently warning her not to argue. "Get my bag and get on board." 

~ * ~

Richard Wilkins stood at the window of his home, watching the clouds he had summoned wash his city clean of the battle with cold water and darkness, punctuated with lightning and winds to carry the ashes away. 

_It is a beautiful thing I have wrought. More beautiful still is what I will wreak upon her._

Each drop of rain on the window was a reminder to him of each tear Buffy Summers would cry as he stripped from her everything she held dear. In his life, the warlock masquerading as Sunnydale's mayor had felt true emotion for a very few things -- and only one person. And Buffy Summers had taken his Faith from him in a single act of malicious betrayal. 

_Even I was never cruel enough to pit Slayer against Slayer. Though she would never admit it, Faith still loved Buffy as a sister, and I would never hurt her like that._

One of the things the warlock had often felt was the savage joy of revenge; it was a satisfaction he had often indulged in and had never been denied; now that he was a Demon Lord, albeit a Demon Lord trapped on Earth, he did not intend to let that change now. He had already begun her torment, but she would not know that until her lifeblood was drained from her bit by bit while her eyes feasted on the corpses of her friends -- the last sight she would ever see. 

Light knocking on his heavy oaken door interrupted his thoughts. Nodding to himself, he wiped his hands with a sanitary cloth -- being a Demon Lord didn't mean one could neglect hygiene, after all -- he waved a hand at the door, opening it wide with just a touch of his power. 

His two newest employees carried in the unconscious body of his prisoner. Wilkins couldn't help but smile in satisfaction at a job well done. These two had worked together in the past and had done extraordinarily well then, and the mayor expected even better results now, when they had his resources to draw on. And although after Mr. Trick's demise, he was wary of working with vampires, he had been impressed, and expected to continue to be pleased with their job performance. 

_Although a thousand of them would never be the equal of my Faith._

The wordlessly dropped the body at his feet and left to wait outside, knowing what he would want without even asking -- good initiative on their parts. The less management he had to deal with, the more time he had to destroy the Slayer and bring about the end of the world. In that order, of course. Even a Demon Lord would be hard pressed to bring about the apocalypse while there was a trained, experienced Slayer with a proven track record running around to interfere. 

But that wouldn't be much of problem for very long. 

Kneeling down in front of the unconscious boy, Wilkins muttered a few words under his breath, bringing the unfortunate creature back to it's senses. 

From his pocket, he pulled out a small piece of polished bone carved with arcane symbols. 

"Do you see this? Good." Excellent. It appeared the boy was intelligent enough to process what was happening without the need for the quips the Slayer and her groupies were so fond of. Perhaps he would be worth keeping around awhile, after all. "This is a talisman that gives me absolute power over you -- at least, over your emotions and darker nature. With it, I can command the beast inside and call it and it's instincts forth at any time...and then command it to do as I wish. Do you understand what that means?" 

The boy just met his gaze with a pair of implacable eyes, nodding ever so slightly, his dyed hair catching the light. 

"I thought you would. You and I are going to have a small chat, and then you are going to go home and have a pleasant evening with your lovely lady." 

Sitting comfortably in his chair behind his desk, the mayor gestured for his guest to sit. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?"


	2. AS2 Moments In Between Waiting

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Minutes In Between**

Breathing had long since become desperate gasping, trying to drink the air through the cold humidity as she halfway ran and halfway stumbled through the streets of Sunnydale, her naked body slick from the rain and her skin cold from the water that seemed to seep right through to her bones. Each step brought her one memory closer to her name; her identity. 

Her mission. 

Each step brought her one moment closer to the reason she had been called back. She knew she had to fight. To kill. To survive...but against what, she couldn't see beyond the painful shadow that covered her thoughts. 

But her concentration was on putting one foot in front of the other as she came nearer and nearer the house. Outdated architecture that was too new to be classic dominated the incongruously bright and cheerful neighborhood. But that displaced cheer ended at one house the seemed to sit just inside the edge of the shadows where no one in Sunnydale seemed to look. Of course, that's why the man had lived there. 

Almost sobbing in terrified relief, the woman found herself standing on the porch banging on the door, screaming words she didn't recognize, calling by name for people she vaguely knew she should know. But time and again, there was no answer except silence broken by the harsh staccato of the rain accompanied by occasional thunderclaps that made her tears course faster. 

Fear and desperation overwhelmed her mind, and she called upon powers and energies she had always felt but had barely been aware of. Words and gestures came to her and were executed without any kind of thought or recognition, and the door swung open and shut as she dove into the house, her torn feet finding the stairs before the lock reasserted itself as the spell dissipated. 

Some instinct drove her towards the bed, where she found herself hiding in the sheets, still dripping wet and shivering in fear, barely aware of her pain or her discomfort. All she knew is that the bed was his and that was where she belonged. She knew she should have had a place there. The strong delicacy of her features contorted in an expression that was half smile, half yawn and she found her eyes heavy. 

Something in her knew that she was safe there. Nothing could reach inside the walls of that house and hurt her, not as long as he lived there and not as long as the blonde girl whose face was always next to his in her mind still prowled the streets. 

Cold and exhaustion claimed the woman, dragging her into a fitful sleep. 

~ * ~ 

"Still no word on anyone?" 

Buffy looked up to see Willow come out of the bathroom and tried not to laugh at her friend. The blue jeans the orderly had found were slightly too big for the witch, and hung low on her hips, exposing far more of her lower midriff than Willow _ever_ willingly had. The shirt was a size too small, and clung to her small frame a bit tighter than modesty generally allowed. Barefoot, Willow made her way over to Buffy and sat down next to her friend. 

"Don't laugh. Just tell me if there's been word." 

Buffy shook her head, tendrils of blonde hair falling into her face. Brushing them away, the petite Slayer sighed. "My mom is off somewhere with my aunt, and there's no way I can reach her. Giles still isn't home, but Cordelia thinks she has an idea where he is and went to go get him. She'll call us on her cell when they're on their way." 

Willow hugged herself and smiled slightly. "That's good...um....Buffy....I need some advice." 

Suddenly grateful one of them had changed the subject, Buffy nodded eagerly. "What about?" Even as she spoke, she felt better; the return to minor matters of mundanity felt better than she thought it would have. For a moment, she wasn't afraid one of her best friends was going to die; she wasn't feeling guilty about her sister-in-arms laying dying in another room by her hand; she wasn't about to fall apart from the inside out because the mayor had almost eaten the whole graduating class of Sunnydale High. For a moment, she was a teenage girl. 

"It's about Oz..." Willow took a deep breath and blinked back her tears. "Buffy...he's never acted like that. W-when I said I was coming here, to see Xander, he flipped...he growled at me. Buffy, Oz _growled_ at me! And it's not a full moon for almost a week!" 

Buffy blinked; so much for minor matters of mundanity. _Oz growled at her._ "Why? I thought he didn't do that unless it was his time of the month." 

Willow nodded slowly and Buffy's stomach sank to her feet. In her mind's eye she saw Xander laying next to Faith, both of them comatose because she had made the wrong choice. _If I had only walked him home..._ Buffy stared at Willow and took a deep breath. _And if I make the wrong decision here it could hurt both Willow and Oz..._

"It felt like he was jealous of Xander...because I was not going to...um...help him practice. I almost ran out of the house...underdressed...when you called I was so worried!" It was obvious how hard Willow was fighting not to burst into a stream of nearly incoherent babble. 

Blinking in surprise, Buffy Summers realized that innocent Willow Rosenberg was not as innocent as everyone thought..._That had to suck for Oz, though...right in the middle of things, she almost runs out of the house naked to run and see about the guy she cheated on him with._

"Wills...maybe Oz was just very emotionally involved with his...practice..." It took a great deal of effort not to laugh or smile, but Buffy knew it would embarrass Willow even more, "...and the timing was really bad, and some deeper wolfy instincts took over." 

Shaking her head, Willow hid her face behind her curtain of red hair, her green eyes staring at a stain on the cracked linoleum that could have been blood or dried bubble gum. "I don't know...I don't think so. He didn't want me to go...and he left, really really mad when I got my resolve face and told him I had to go..." Willow broke down and the babble poured forth, "Xander's been my best friend forever, I've known him my whole life and I can't just not come see him after that bastard shot him and killed his mother. I feel so bad because I always wanted to know her better but now she's dead and Xander's dying and no one cares but us and I don't want him to die and damn it, I wish Oz understood that I need him as much as I need Xander!" 

Buffy forestalled another babble-attack with a quick hug. "Willow...we're all stressed. Not six hours ago, we blew up our school and watched a lot of our classmates die. People we might have considered friends if they had ever spoken to us...and if we weren't hiding Sunnydale's big secret behind the closed doors of the library...when...you know how times I was glad no one at Sunnydale High ever checked out books?" Shrugging, Buffy pulled Willow over to rest on her shoulder. "Wills, Oz is probably over tired and over stressed...and Xander will make it. Just like I have and you have when we've been in this kind of situation. This is just worse for us because he was shot by a human...I can't go slay him and you can't go turn him into something very nasty." 

"This time, we just have to deal." 

Willow sat up and met Buffy's eyes. "The hell we do. We never 'just deal'. When Giles and Cordy get here, Giles will be all british authority figure and Cordy will just yell really loud until someone tells us something. And if they don't then I start crying and you start breaking things..." Tears started falling again as the shy redhead thought about her best friend being operated on as they spoke. 

"Willow...calm down. They'll tell us soon enough...there's a phone over there. Why don't you go call Oz?" 

Nodding mutely, Willow trudged over to the courtesy phone, trying to smile back when the receptionist gave her a reassuring smile and a pat on the arm. Numbly, she dialed Oz's number, and listened to the phone ring. 

Buffy sat back in her chair and curled her legs up under her, sinking into her worries about Xander and now about Willow. 

~ * ~ 

The quiet hum of the plane's twin engines drowned out most any other sounds. Rain droplets smeared across the windows like bugs on a windshield, leaving streaks of cold water. Giles knew the Watcher's Council jet could weather the storm, even at the low altitude needed to avoid radar detection. After taking a moment to make sure Wesley was asleep, he turned his attention to the sullen young woman in the seat next to him. He took a long swallow of his gin, relishing the burn as the alcohol slid down his throat -- it was never a good idea to argue with a woman you had just unwittingly abducted without something to take the edge of the well deserved lecture that was sure to follow. 

"How did you know where we were?" 

Cordelia turned to regard the former librarian with smoldering eyes as sharp as heated steel. "I'm not as stupid as I look. It was easy to figure out. Buffy made the Council mad when she told them where to shove it, and if I were them, I'd send someone to take her in hand. And there's only one airstrip in town you can sneak in and out of. And since I knew Wesley had to go back, I wondered about you. That, and my female intuition told me right where to find you both." 

She sat there silent for a long moment, apparently making a valiant effort to stay her tongue. 

"Cordelia, of all the things I have found you to be, stupid was never one of them. I have to admit, I am impressed." 

Flattery usually had a very soothing effect on Cordelia Chase; this time, it just made her bolder. 

"Why don't you tell me what's going on, before I wake Wesley and make him tell me." The slow, predatory smile that slid across her face made Giles want to sight, but he refused to indulge himself and give her the satisfaction. "And I _can _get him to tell me..." 

Leaning back in his seat, Giles closed his eyes. "The Watcher's Council did not accept Buffy's resignation. Instead, they drafted both myself and Wesley back into their service and extradited us to England so that we would not interfere in the re-training of the Slayers. You arrived at the least opportune moment, and are now on your way to becoming a citizen of Great Britain and an apprentice Watcher." 

A thousand responses flooded Cordelia's brain, but she dismissed them all in favor of the more obvious questions. "So when do we go back?" 

Giles shrugged. "We don't." 

Cordy sputtered, and grabbed Giles drink out of his hand, draining the remaining gin one swallow. "What?" 

In the dim lights of the plane, the Watcher wasn't sure if he saw tears in her eyes or not. _I can understand tears. I've just helped abduct her away from her family and friends, one of which may be dead by now._

Forcing himself to meet her eyes, Ripper shrugged. "We are going to England and most likely will not be coming back. If all goes according to their plan, none of us will ever speak to either of the Slayers or any member of the Scooby gang." 

Her mouth hardened into a thin line. "And what's your plan?" 

Giles felt a small warmth in his stomach at her confidence in him, and no small amount of pride that her confidence was well founded. "Cordelia, I assure that this is a temporary situation. The Council does not understand who they have abducted. After the Master, Angelus and the Mayor and all of their assorted henchmen and hirelings, the Watcher's Council is nothing more than a minor problem." 

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Rupert. Your confidence in us is reassuring." The cultured tone did little to hide the sarcasm in Quentin Travers voice. The large man strode into the lounge of the airplane and poured himself a glass of bourbon from the wet bar. "Although something tells me your arrogance is a little misplaced, my old friend." 

Rupert Giles said nothing, leveling a glare at the groggy Wesley, silently warning him not to speak. 

"And what was that little stunt back there, threatening Mr. St. Clair? Andrew is a more than competent young man who will have your rebellious Slayer firmly in hand quickly." 

Cordelia rolled her eyes at the rotund gentleman, sighing. "What is it with you people? Don't you ever wear anything besides _tweed_?" 

Travers turned his scornful eyes to the teenager and huffed like a beached whale. "Miss Chase, as your education with the Watcher's Council continues, you will learn to appreciate the elegant fashions of traditional professionalism." 

She snorted derisively. "Not hardly." 

Quentin took a sip of his bourbon and wedged himself into a chair facing the three, but turned his attentions to Wesley. "Mr. Windham-Pryce, the Council had a higher expectation of you than to lose one Slayer to the other side and have another refuse Council orders. But you at least had the sense to inform us of what was going on, which is more than I can say for you, Rupert." 

"Stop talking, you ancient fashion impaired windbag." Cordelia muttered under her breath. Travers glared at her but said nothing. 

"Quentin," Giles spoke slowly and softly. "What do you want?" 

The Councilor shrugged his wide shoulders, and smiled coldly. "Wesley Windham-Pryce is to be assigned to a Slayer-in-Training and you, Rupert Giles are to be taken into custody. Miss Chase may choose to accompany you, or she may begin her _official_ instruction with the Council." 

~ * ~ 

The mayor watched his thunderstorm dwindle to a slow drizzle, and he smiled. Shuffling footsteps approached him from behind, muffled under a moaning wail making his bones ache. It was a truly beautiful sound. He felt her arms wrap around his waist, and heard the whisper of the silk nightgown she wore rustle against the fabric of his Italian suit. Her body sucked the warmth from his, making his skin prickle with goose bumps. 

"Good evening, my dear. What delightful evil plays in your delicious dreams tonight?" His voice was a gentle whisper as his hands stroked hers. 

The stars are singing to me tonight..." Dru whispered in a laughing purr, nuzzling her cold cheek into the mayor's warm neck. Her tongue gently lapped at his pulse-point. "Mmmm...I bet you taste good..." 

The mayor gasped, his hand raking through her hair. "Now that wasn't very nice, Drusilla." 

"I'm not a nice person..." She murmured, her lilting English accent drawing music in the air. "And the stars are singing....and I want them to sing...I want them to scream...and the sky cry blood on my face...." 

Breathless, she moaned and rubbed against him, her nails playing with the buttons on his shirt. 

"What do they say, my lady?" Wilkins whispered harshly, his fingernails digging into her arm. The vampiress laughed, squirming against him like a sensual child begging for something she didn't understand. 

"They sing of blood bleeding...tasting ashes...they say that daddy is back and they scream that the Slayer's heart bleeds on black shoals..." she breathe deep, sucking in air in an almost fevered gasp. "Ohhhhh....she wants him...and he taunts her...teases her...and leaves her begging him for more and she doesn't even know it....the stars weep for the boy...they know he's alone...and the eyes in the darkness have come back to take the Slayer away..." 

Laughing, the mayor swept her around in front of him, staring into her dark eyes. "What else do the stars crave?" 

He needed to know; just hours before, he had been on the brink of Ascension. Of triumph over all those things that he knew were his to claim, because he had been the most powerful. And all of it had been lost because he had missed one, small clue. 

It had been a very bad day. 

Human emotion. It still plagued him, ate at him. A hollow place inside him where Faith used to be. Now, she was lying, dying in Sunnydale general while that blonde bitch of Slayer walked free. 

_Not this time, Slayer. Not this time._

Giggling, she leaned up to lick his ear like a playful kitten. "They crave chaos...intimacy and pain...they want love to blossom and wither and die and they want to taste that death like a sweet wine..." 

Sing song, she murmured a humming moan, her lips caressing his neck, as if daring herself to taste of him. 

"Good." Stepping away, the Demon Lord shoved the vampiress away, ordering over her shoulder, "Spike, please take her back to your rooms and give her something to eat. There should be something from Willy's in a thermos." 

The peroxide blonde vampire shrugged, his leather duster crinkling. 

Wilkins smiled to himself. This had been a very good night after all.   


**Chapter Four: Waiting**

Willow hung up the phone with a feeling of at least some relief. She turned to Buffy. "I called my parents. They're on their way." 

Breathing out her own sigh of relief, Buffy nodded. "I'm glad we can call them this time...I'm glad it's not supernatural...but..." 

Sinking down next to her friend, the redheaded witch nodded slowly. "I know. Have we heard from Cordy, Giles or Wesley?" 

Squirming in her seat, the blonde Slayer shook her head. "No...I am now officially worried. It's not like Giles to just disappear and not call like this...I know we blew up his job today, but I'd at least expect him to let us know he's going to go mope!" 

The radio station filtered through the waiting room changed songs, and the opening riffs of "Outside" by Fred Durst poured into the room, making Buffy feel like she was floating through the plot of a cheap made-for-tv movie. 

_"...i'm on the outside, i'm lookin' in_   
_I can see through you, see your true colors_   
_inside you're ugly, ugly like me_   
_I can see through you, see to the real you..."_

The lyrics ran through her, the words reminding her what she was; what all of them were. They were outside, looking in at the world through a pane of unbreakable glass. They could never be part of the 'normal' world because none of them were normal anymore. They had all chosen a different path; they had all chosen to fight a war against evil. Not evil in the sense of 'bad guys' and 'good guys' but evil in the sense of soulless creatures with instincts and passions that drove them to destroy the human race and return Earth to a state of hell-bound chaos. She, Buffy Summers, the Slayer was supposed to lead that war -- beside her were her friends, the Scooby Gang, they called themselves. With them, she had saved the world. They had saved each other, and each night, they made it possible for one more 'normal' person who had no idea what went bump in the night to walk home safely. 

Buffy shivered. Maybe she was just feeling vulnerable because Xander had been hurt by an enemy all of her Slayer powers had no defense against, or maybe it was because she hadn't heard from Giles since they had left the school or from Cordelia since she had sent her to find Giles, but her stomach twisted with the unwavering certainty that something serious was very _wrong._

The feeling had been there all night, but now it was stronger than it had been since she had first looked into the eyes of Faith the moment after the dark slayer had killed the deputy mayor. 

"Willow...." She murmured. 

Looking up from her own brooding thoughts, she met the Slayer's hazel eyes with her own green ones. "Buffy, what's wrong?" 

Shaking her head and brushing aside her mane of yellow hair, Buffy shrugged. "I don't know. I really don't. But something isn't right. Maybe it's leftover from Graduation...I mean, it's not six hours ago that we faced and killed a demon. We fought vampires in the middle of the afternoon and tonight has been kinda emotional. Xander got shot and Angel almost died, then nearly killed me, left me, then came back. Maybe I'm just imagining things, or maybe it's a lot of things...but something doesn't feel right." 

Willow shrugged, her auburn hair falling onto her shoulders. She winced at the motion in the overly tight shirt. "Or maybe you're the Slayer and something isn't right." She looked a Buffy calmly. "And I'm worried too...my best friend might be dead. Oz might leave me. And Giles might be in trouble..." 

Sucking in air, Buffy brought herself out of her thoughts. "Yeah...and like always, we just have to wait and see." 

~ * ~ 

_At least she waited until Quentin left._ Oddly enough, Giles found his thought gave him very little reassurance. Resisting the urge to sigh again, the Watcher leaned back in his seat and pondered the wisdom of another glass of gin. 

"You will not let them dress me in tweed and make me a Watcher! I could have been Wesley's apprentice, but no! You had to get all hormonal and territorial and growl that I was yours! Now I can be in prison or a fashion victim from the twenties who spends more time in the library than Willow or get to baby-sit junior Buffy wannabes!" 

Wesley had long since made the journey from the lounge into the cockpit, ostensibly to talk to Quentin about his upcoming assignment, leaving Giles to deal with the panicked and hysterical Cordelia. He had always considered himself a patient man, able to deal with almost any crisis calmly and with dignity. But this time, it was all he could do to keep himself from shaking the girl silly. 

Not that it would do any good. 

"Cordelia." 

Cordelia apparently didn't hear, didn't care or just wasn't paying attention. She continued railing and screaming at him, valiantly trying to keep the tears from spilling over. 

"Cordelia!" 

Pacing, she was tugging at her clothes. "And how could you let me get dragged onto a first-class private flight dressed like THIS! How could you just leave Xander, dying in a hospital bed? I thought you liked him at least enough to find out how he's doing! I may have dumped the loser for cheating on me, but I still don't want him dead! And as long as I have this 'gotta help save the world' thing going on, I might have to work with him, and even Xander Harris would get offended if I didn't visit him at least once after that fucking bastard shot him and killed his mother who was a really nice woman despite that fact that she ignored him unless she needed him to do something...." 

And Giles had thought only Willow could babble that long without taking a breath. 

_"CORDELIA!"_

Blinking through her tears, the teenager looked over at Giles meekly, pretending she wasn't embarrassed. "Yeah?" 

Taking a calming breath, Giles nodded to her. "Thank you. Yes, I did not let you be mistaken for Wesley's apprentice, but not for the reasons you think. As I informed you earlier, this is a temporary situation. Yes, we will be taken into custody, but that will not last very long at all. I was not affiliated with the Watcher's Council for my entire lifetime without forging at least a few alliances." 

Cordelia sat back down, her eyes regaining some of their familiar mischievous sparkle. "You mean, you're going to play politics?" 

Giles grimaced and poured himself another glass of gin, and then another for Cordelia. He needed the girl to understand that he was placing her in the role of an adult and he was going to give her the respect of one. For some reason, teenagers felt they had that respect when an adult gave them alcohol. _I will never understand the culture of their generation, but I think I am coming to accept it._

Wordlessly, Cordelia took the glass from Giles and sipped at it, waiting for him to answer rather shrewdly pointed question. 

"I am going to try the best I can, but I fear I do not do well with such things..." 

Setting her glass down, Cordelia smiled brightly. Giles couldn't help but notice the feral edge to it. "But I do. Politics of snooty rich people I get." 

Blinking, Giles sat down heavily. _She does at that, doesn't she?_

"Do you think you can help me?" 

She shook her head. "Not at first, no. I don't know enough about the people or what's going on. Give me a week or two, then maybe. But I might be able to help you figure out what's going on and how to use it, if you're willing to candidly and without hiding any of the graphic details, tell me who the major players are and everything about them." 

Giles gave an embarrassed cough. "I don't know any of that, I'm afraid..." 

"I do." Wesley said, walking back in and sitting across from them. "But you might want to take notes...." 

~ * ~ 

Sheila and Ira Rosenberg had long considered themselves very self aware and practical people. Both had become aware since Willow's sophomore year that they barely knew their daughter and had acknowledged that they were gone more often than they were at home. But they also knew, with some pride and some guilt, that their daughter was a wonderful woman with supportive friends, Xander Harris first and foremost amongst them. 

They had often taken care of Xander when both he and Willow were younger; in some ways, they had raised the young man. They had known that his home life had been anything but good -- however, they had never imagined Michael Harris would have ever been capable of what their daughter claimed he had done. 

All of their doubts were erased when the strode into the emergency room lobby of Sunnydale General Hospital and saw their daughter and Buffy Summers sitting side-by-side in mutual morose depression. 

Ira walked over to the nurse's station, his quiet authority overwhelming the nurse. She handed him Xander's paperwork without argument and watched him scan over it with a critical eye. He passed over his insurance card, followed by his credit card, silently letting her know, one way or the other, Xander would get whatever care he needed. 

Sheila said nothing as she sat between the two girls, her long unused motherly instinct telling her that they both needed her right then. Her green eyes matched Willow's, tear for tear as she held her daughter and her daughter's friend to her, all of them crying for their hurt friend. 

Buffy was able to relax, just enough to know that Xander was well cared for, but Willow had not been close to her parents for a long time and felt almost uncomfortable accepting her mother's support. 

Ira Rosenberg walked back over at sat down across from them, watching coldly as a police officer strode confidently in. His stern gaze slowed the officer down as he approached the three women. 

_What does he want? None of us saw the shooting; we're only cleaning up Mike Harris' mess, the same as we have since Xander was five. Except this time, I won't let his son go back home._

"I'm looking for Willow Rosenberg." 

Ira stood and faced the officer with an unwavering gaze. "That's my daughter. What can we help you with officer?" 

_I hate this town. I hate this state. I hate all of this. Every time I leave, one of these kids gets hurt. Badly. First it was my Willow, in the hospital with a concussion because those punks broke into the library and killed that girl -- that was the time another of these idiot officers accused Buffy of murder. _He snorted mentally, knowing how foolish _that_ idea was. Buffy Summers was a trained martial artist; he had seen her practice when she had spent the night at his house and although her home life wasn't always stable, he knew she was too compassionate and too disciplined to do that to his daughter, or one of their friends. 

_The next time was Cordelia. Willow and Xander and her always fought, but deep down they were always friends, in a twisted teenage sort of way. They grew up together, after all. Stabbed through the stomach by an iron bar -- and the Chase's didn't even care about Cordelia, just the money. And it was the same gang, I think, as the first time._ At least that time, none of Willow's group had been accused. 

_Now Xander is shot and Alexandra is dead._ He felt his throat close up and tear well up in his eyes. But he would save his tears for later, in the privacy of his office, where he had cried for his daughter and her friends so many times. _And this time there's no gang I can blame it on. Only the blind stupidity of one man._

A cold thought struck the aging scholar. _A blind stupidity I am very close to committing myself, by leaving my daughter and her friends to this on their own. No more. _He had seen his daughter's discomfort with her own mother's touch. 

"Officer?" Ira asked again, his eyes dragging the man's gaze away from the tableau of the three women. 

"We need to take her down to the station so she can be questioned about a missing person and the murder of Mayor Richard Wilkins III." 

Ira's eyes narrowed slowly. "Now why would she need to do that, officer?" 

"Daniel Osbourne has been reported missing. Miss Rosenberg was the last person to have seen him." 

Ira heard his daughter give a choked sob and stand up. "What?"   



	3. AS3 Questions

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Author's Reference Note: This is still the night of 'Graduation Day'. It is somewhere around two in the morning at this point. Xander was shot about 10:00 p.m. and Willow arrived at the hospital around 11:00 p.m. Giles, Cordelia and Wesley boarded the airplane around midnight.**   


* * *

**Chapter Five: Questioning**

For the first time since junior high, Willow Rosenberg devoutly wished she had her father with her. And for the thousandth time that night, Willow Rosenberg devoutly wished she were still attending junior high. Things had been much easier then, without vampires, without witchcraft, when it had been just her, Xander, and Jesse. 

_And Jesse is just one more reason I hate people like this. The Sunnydale police didn't even blink when he died. Goddess, I'm not even sure his parents noticed. And now my best friend has been shot by his father -- an honored and respected member of this law enforcement agency that has me halfway across town from where I need to be._

Biting her lower lip to keep from crying, Willow stalwartly refused to answer the detective's questions, knowing that things were going to go from worse to horrid in a matter of minutes if he wasn't satisfied with her noncommittal answers and outright silence. But there were some things men like him couldn't handle. 

_People like Buffy handle stuff like this._

Brushing her red hair over her shoulder, she turned and looked at the one-way mirror and smiled, letting her vision subtly shift to see through the reflective glass. She saw her father sitting there stoically, not moving a muscle except to smile slightly at the consternation of the two officers watching her interrogation. 

Willow resisted the urge to smile knowingly -- she was getting better. That was at least one spell she could do without trying. 

Pacing back and forth in the cold and dimly lit interrogation room, Sunnydale Police Detective Kevin Mitchell sighed, and shook his head in exasperation. "Miss Rosenberg, do you realize that by refusing to answer my questions concerning Daniel Osbourne's role in the arson of Sunnydale High School that you are possibly implicating yourself in several criminal acts?" 

The bright, single-bulb lamp directly above her head shone down on her like a perverted mockery of a spotlight, highlighting her and the detective in harsh white light. Every coffee stain on the grungy table and on his well-worn shirt caught her eyes in stark relief to the landscape of broken plaster and cracked stone adorning the three walls not supporting the one-way mirror and doorway. 

Willow licked her lips, shivering in the too-cold room. Her borrowed clothes and still-bare feet did nothing to protect her from an antiquated air conditioner that seemed hell-bent on not being retired by proving it could single-handedly reverse the effects of global warming. 

"I thought I had been brought here because Oz was reported missing, not because some gang attacked my graduation ceremony." 

Detective Mitchell ran his hand through his graying brown hair and sat down heavily. "Either you are the most innocent looking teenage hard-case I've ever met, have no idea what I'm talking about, or are hiding something. Which is it, Miss Rosenberg?" 

Willow bit her lower lip again, and stared up the bright white lamp, feeling her fragile emotional control start to slip, tears welling up in her eyes. _Oh Goddess...please let me not cry...please let me not babble...please let me be strong, just this one time..._

Taking a deep breath, Willow forced her features into her infamously feared 'resolve face' and stared hard with her soft green eyes at the detective. Through the mirror, she saw her father grin and suppress a chuckle. 

"I'm mad is what I am, detective! My best friend has been shot by his own father, who is one of your captains, and is in surgery and might be dead right now and then you come and tell me that my boyfriend is missing and try to accuse us both of helping burn down the school even though I wouldn't do that because that would mean all of Mr. Giles books would burn, which they did, and Oz wouldn't have burned the school because he's too gentle and never gets angry and I shouldn't be here in your dark little room answering your stupid little trick questions, I should be at the hospital with Buffy and my mom waiting for Xander to get better because someone has to tell him that his father killed his mother and be there when he cries even though he'll pretend not to...and Oh Goddess, I swore I wouldn't babble...and I know you can't hold me for anything at all because I've done nothing wrong and I don't have to answer your questions, and even if I did have to I don't know any answers but you don't believe me because you don't believe anyone, even when they are telling the truth, which I am, so why don't you just let me and my father go back to taking care of my friend!" 

Kevin Mitchell nearly fell out of his seat. 

Never in his ten years of police work had he ever had a suspect make him feel as suitably small and guilty as this delicate redhead had done in less than a minute. He was also having a few problems coming to grips with the idea that that same delicate redhead had delivered her entire speech in less than a minute _and_ in a single breath. Trying not to apologize for the tears coursing down her cheeks, he finally admitted to himself that she was _right. _He couldn't legally hold her for anything. 

Detective Mitchell nodded mutely to the officer by the door, gesturing for him to let Willow out. 

"Looks like Mayor Wilkins will just have to hire a new runner then." 

Sniffling, Willow turned around to look at the Detective in a state of utter shock, as if he had told her Michael Harris was going free. "Oz never worked for the Mayor...." 

The door shut behind her. 

Kevin Mitchell kicked a chair across the room. "Damn!" 

~ * ~ 

A vampire and a werewolf were having dinner. 

Not all that unusual when you consider they were in Sunnydale, or that one of them was the probable childe of the infamous Scourge of Europe and the other was the boyfriend -- and more recently lover -- of the Slayer's best friend. After all, as far as anyone knew, the Slayer was currently dating the former Scourge of Europe, so why shouldn't his childe co-mingle with the Slayer's support staff? 

Something about William the Bloody's oath to dance on the Slayer's grave seems to come to mind. 

But for the moment, William the Bloody, Childe of Angelus, Scourge of Europe, commonly known as Spike, seemed more than content to sip at a warm mug of blood delivered from Willy the Snitch's bar and muse on the most recent events on the Hellmouth, taking great satisfaction that the Slayer was most probably going to die in the near future. 

Looking over at his unlikely dinner companion who was half-heartedly toying with a rare steak, Spike grinned heartily, and swung his boots up on the mayor's antique table, knowing just how much it would annoy Wilkins. 

_And the bloody coot can't afford to off me, not while he needs my Dru to read the stars for 'im._

Raising his bleached blonde eyebrow, Spike took a sip off the blood -- good stuff, too; most likely fresh -- and chuckled lightly at the guitarist across from him. "You know mate, you and me are bloody well stuck in this for the same bloomin' reason." 

"We are?" Oz looked up at the vampire, his eyebrow mirroring the undead's. His softly casual voice caught Spike off guard, but brought a grin to his face. _For a white hat, he's not that bad._

"Damn straight, wolf-boy. We're both working for the wanker 'cause he's got our women." 

Taking a bite of his steak, Oz fingered the bone talisman hung around his neck and nodded slightly. "You do have a point. The difference being he already has yours." 

Spike cocked his head to one side, his smile fading a bit. _Bloody observant, that._

Taking a deep swallow from his mug, Spike made a note to thank Willy. This was the best he'd had since the last time he was in Sunnydale. _Since the last time peaches got de-souled, and I helped the Slayer put him down. And in some odd way, I was doing a good deed...I guess even the big bad has to do one of those every century or so. _Heaving a mental sigh, Spike finished the last dregs of his blood and set the mug on the table, wondering if there was any more of that laying about. 

"He does, doesn't he? Demon lord or not, there aren't many men that can handle Dru, and the wanker isn't one of 'em. She'll have him eating out of her hand before he can turn around to piss on the Slayer's corpse." Spike paused thoughtfully for a moment before breaking out into a wide grin. "That'll be a show, no doubt." 

"Which?" Oz asked stilling gazing steadily at the vampire. "The pissing or the eating?" 

"One, the other, both." Spike shrugged. "Whichever, it'll be a hell of a lot of fun." 

Oz toyed with the remained meat on his plate, pushing it this way and that with a finger. "And can _you_?" He didn't bother to look up at the vampire. 

"Can I what?" Spike asked, his voice teetering between offended and petulant. 

"Handle her." 

Spike laughed, and swung his legs off the table as he rose to his feet, mug in hand. "Right. And I'm the king of bleedin' France. Dru handles me, and I tag along for the ride, hippie, lovin' every minute of it." 

Spike started rummaging around the mayor's kitchen, looking for one of the thermoses Willy had brought by. 

"Because you're with her." Oz was standing, and leaning against a brick wall in a corner of the mayor's kitchen, his eyes scanning the room, amazed at the third-hand dishes, worn towels and generic brand everything that surrounded the antique table. 

"For a man who doesn't talk much, you say a lot. The thing of it is, I never wanted to come back to this bloody cursed place, let alone deal with the bleedin' slayer until her corpse was deader 'n me. But you see, Dru had ideas of her own and came back to meet this Wilkins poof, and seems to want to stay. The Slayer and me, we had a deal before, and I figure if I can have a deal with Summers, than I can bloody well have a deal with you. So listen, 'cause this is a one-time offer. Refuse me now, and I'll change my mind. I keep 'im away from Red and you tell the Slayer not to send me an' Dru back to England as potting soil." 

Oz nodded sagely, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Such an idea has it's merits. But I can't go talk to Buffy, Willow or anyone else until this spell is gone. Anytime I get close, it's instant wolfman." 

He decided not to mention anything about Xander being shot, figuring that the less Spike knew, the less the mayor knew. 

Spike poured himself another mug of blood, taking a deep swallow. "Ahh...now that's the good stuff. Young, maybe...oh, sixteen or so." He took another sip, savoring it like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine. "I think her name was Cheryl." Gesturing with his mug, Spike sighed. "If that's your way of tellin' me to sod off, just say it, scooby-doo, an' I'll go get the witch myself and hand her over to the bleedin' Mayor while you watch from chains." 

Again, Oz nodded, considering the situation. "Then we're at an impasse. I can't go near them and neither can you." Then he shrugged casually, his eyes narrowing. "Because if you go anywhere near Willow, you won't have to worry about Buffy." 

Laughing, Spike reached in his ever-present duster for his cigarettes, and fumbled for a lighter -- there were few greater pleasures in life than a good pint of fresh blood, a cigarette and a master plan worthy of the one and only Big Bad. 

Deftly, Oz flipped out a lighter and flicked the catch; a seven inch flame licked out to caress the tip of Spike's cigarette. Puffing gently, Spike sighed in bliss and nodded to Oz. 

Spike almost laughed at the lighter -- there was really only one reason the musician would carry a lighter that doubled as a small flame thrower. The vampire chocked on the smoke holding back his laughter. 

"Here's another deal for you, then. I get you out of town and make sure he doesn't touch Red. You get word back to the Slayer not to stake me, and tell them fancy Brits holdin' the Slayer's leash what's coming. You think Acathla was bad bloody news? Or this wanker of a mayor a problem? They're nothing at all." 

Spike took a deep drag off his cigarette and threw back the rest of his blood in a long swallow. "I told Buffy that I had a ken to keep this world around...something about how I wanted to keep you bleedin' happy meals on legs walking around like god's own drive through buffet. And right about then it sounded like a good idea, but now it doesn't seem so bright." 

Recognizing the look in the vampire's eyes as the same one Giles or Wesley got when they wanted to be encouraged to continue on about whatever demon of the day was threatening the safety of the good people living in oblivious idyll in Sunnydale, Oz tilted his head to one side and shrugged the obvious question out. "Why not?" 

"Peaches always said I never learned my history, but this part I got. The mayor is hell-bent on revenge against the Slayer and taking over the mortal world...and he's calling in the big guns. I'm not sure what's worse; that he's waking the bastard up or that he can control him." 

Frowning, Oz sat down and nodded to himself. "Talk to me." 

~ * ~ 

A modest house at 1630 Revello Dr. in Sunnydale, California had been the home to the Slayer for three years. Andrew St. Clair silently wished for those years to have been good, because he wanted his Slayer to have fond memories when she moved away from her mother's home into her new rooms in a safehouse the Watcher's Council had arranged. 

This time, everything would go by the book. 

There would be no bending, changing or flagrant violations of the rules. The Slayer would act as a Slayer, live as a Slayer, soon enough, think like a Slayer. He would not be another Rupert Giles or Wesley Windham-Pryce to coddle her desire to be a teenager and have a 'real life'. Buffy Anne Summers was the Slayer; one girl in all the world with the strength and skill to fight the rising tide of evil threatening the world. And fight she would, in the time-honored manner the Watcher's Council had set out since the discovery of the Slayers centuries before. 

His hand hovered over the doorknob and his lips moved in a silent chant. With a click, the door swung open as if inviting the Watcher into the empty home. 

With quiet footsteps, Andrew entered the Summers' residence, gesturing the door closed behind him. 

"Nice place." Nodding to himself, the Watcher set his satchel down on the table, and shrugged. _This shouldn't take long at all._

Unslinging the two large blue duffel bags he had bought at the Sunnydale Wal-mart, St. Clair trudged up the stairs and into the Slayer's room at the end of the hall. He knew right where it was; his training for this assignment had included memorizing the layout of the Slayer's house, school and standard patrol routes. He had also committed to memory every report and message concerning both Buffy and Faith. 

His current task was simple; get the Slayer packed. 

Buffy's room was a dichotomy of chaotic organization and careless housekeeping, but that didn't deter St. Clair. Thoroughly methodical, the Watcher rifled through every aspect of the Slayer's belongings, folding and packing the supplies, clothing, and personal belongings he felt she would need, all fitting neatly into two duffel bags. Most of her more fashionable clothes and lingerie he left behind, opting instead for clothes suited for fighting and patrol. 

He had been right; it didn't take long at all. 

_Anything else she feels she needs, I'll argue with her about later._

Leaving the two duffels by the front door, St. Clair calmly sat down at the kitchen table and began to read over the Watcher diaries of Rupert Giles and Wesley Windham-Pryce. 

~ * ~ 

"There's more going on here than you're willing to tell me, isn't there?" Ira Rosenberg worked hard to keep his voice level, and to hide both his fear and anger at his daughter. Keeping his eyes straight ahead as they drove, he refused to look at her tear-stained face, knowing one glance into her wide green eyes and he wouldn't have the heart to be angry anymore. Only heartbroken that he had lost almost all connection with his only child. 

Willow's silence spoke volumes. They road in uncomfortable silence for a bit, the elder Rosenberg bracing himself for her reaction to his next question. 

_George Bernard Shaw once said that silence is the perfect expression of scorn. I see now that he was right._

"Willow Rosenberg, I know I heard you swear by a goddess in there. I want you to tell me what you meant when you did that." 

The Jewish scholar's stomach roiled with bile as he headed back towards the hospital, wishing he knew what to say to make his daughter open up to him. He couldn't remember...hadn't Sheila mentioned something once about Willow wanting to be a witch or some other foolishness like that? Maybe she just hadn't grown out of that phase yet, or maybe all the stress had made her revert to the comfort of her teenage rebellion. 

Either way, it wrenched his digestive track into knots that his own daughter wouldn't talk to him. 

He watched the sights of Sunnydale's only highway blur past him as he gunned his sports car -- another trophy of his endless mid-life crisis -- at speeds that would have been unsafe if not for all the time he had spent driving on the Audubon in Germany in the past three years. 

Three years he hadn't really known his daughter. 

"Listen to me, girl! I am your father, and you _will_ tell me what's going on!" 

Ira felt his daughter's eyes slicing through him like razors. He heard her soft voice like it was spoken by someone else. "No. I won't." 

He didn't even have time to answer before he felt the temperature in the car drop ten degrees. "You don't know a thing. And you won't. Not one of us will answer your questions any more than I answered the detectives. I would ask you to trust me, but since you don't know me, I can't ask that. So I'm going to tell you to stay out of it. If you want to help Xander, please do." Her voice almost cracked on that last. 

"But otherwise, leave us all alone." 

Sputtering, her father turned to look at her caught between shock, guilt and anger. When he saw her eyes, he felt a small amount of fear. What he saw there would stay with him until the day he died -- he had always heard the distant Irish relatives on his wife's side of the family talk about how Willow was fey, in her innocence and energy. Now he saw it in her eyes, a strange sense of being more than he was or ever could be, as if his petite and sweet daughter held secrets in her that would break him. Goosebumps ran up his arms as he drew in breath to speak. 

_If this is what comes from letting her hang around with that odd Summer's kid..._

"No. Don't talk. Don't lecture. Accept." Lowering her head so that her red hair covered her face in curtain that hid her renewed tears, her voice grew strained as she talked. "When Jesse died, you told me it would be okay...but that's all you said. You never asked how. You never asked why. I spent nights crying into Xander's arms and on Buffy's shoulder. They helped me. They were there for me. 

"Amy disappeared, and you didn't blink. My classmates kept dying, and you weren't worried. You left me alone to deal with it all. Alone, in that house, at night, knowing there were bad things happening. I had Xander, and I had Buffy, and I had Giles. I learned to deal with it without you. You can't come in now and try to help me deal with it all. So don't ask. Don't try. Okay?" 

Blinking back tears of his own, Ira swallowed a lump of guilt that settled in his stomach like a rock. _Oh sweet lord...what I have done to my baby?_

He could only nod as the lights of Sunnydale General grew closer.   


**Chapter Six: Falling**

She dreamed. 

She slept in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, and on his pillows, her bare skin wet from sweat and rain. And she dreamed. 

_Of fire, around her, devouring the demons that craved her blood, her body, and her soul._

_Of blood, soaking her hands, her shirt, dripping down her face. Some of it was hers; most wasn't._

_Of the girl, the small blonde angel that fought them with the fury of a storm unleashed, her hazel eyes begging for the chance to save her world._

_Of the girl lost in the dark who fought as her sister-in-arms, aching for a chance at redemption._

_Of the redheaded witch who called upon the might and mystery of magic to defend her own._

_Of the woman who stood at her side, a partner in power and more._

_Of the father who guided them, watching them grow and learn. And watched them die._

_Of the teacher who joined too late in the game to understand the war he was fighting._

_Of the soldier that stood with them._

_Of the parents that loved them._

_And of the darkness that hunted them...aching to taste all that they had been, all that they were, and all they ever would be._   
  


_Swords and darkness clashed in her mind, thunder rolling through the sky and lightning flickering through the clouds like mad faeries dancing evil down on the Earth's people, acid blood falling where rain should have washed away shadows of death and left trails of tears dripping into gutters, leaving only the merciful touch of dawning day to greet their tired eyes._

_Focused thoughts and intensity of emotion ate at her as she walked amongst them, now a general leading them to a war they could never win and a battle they could not afford._

_Sometime in the past she could not remember, she had betrayed them all._

_Sometime in the past she could not remember, she had loved him._

_She tasted the darkness and silence sang silver in her ears. Tears of moonlight leaked onto her face from Luna's grace above and she smiled, knowing her knives would taste blood that night._

_Instruments of destruction;_

_Existence ached in her. She wanted it back._

_She craved it to end._

_For her peace to come back._

_They marched to war, demons dancing in the dark about them, eyes peeling skin away and revealing hearts. Angst boils over and they all scream._

_They all scream._

_The eye of the storm shatters, and the blood flows._

_Blood flows; blood calls to blood. Blood feeds. Nourishes. Guides._

_Blood kills._

_~ * ~_

When Sheila Rosenberg had asked Buffy for a quieter place to talk, a small room sheltering a comatose teenage girl was the last place she expected her daughter's quietly enigmatic friend to take her. 

Buffy entered the room with silent footsteps; how the girl did that in heeled boots, the psychologist would never know. Slowly, almost reverently, Buffy walked over to the bed, her face as solemn and dark as some of the war veterans that she had counseled. She reached down and caressed the girl's face like she would a sister or a lover. 

The room was dimly lit even during the day, but at night it seemed as if the small lamp was nothing more than a candle, making it feel as if she had just entered a temple that was being constantly profaned by the presence of beeping and humming technology keeping a fallen warrior alive. 

Somehow, Sheila couldn't shake the feeling that the girl was a warrior. That both of them were. And somehow, she found herself thinking of her sweet, quiet daughter as a solider in a war; same as the boy she had helped raise who was even then fighting for his life. 

_How man times have they all fought for their lives, and none of us saw it? And is this war really against street gangs that we all ignore, or is it worse?_

_Is it the mob?_

Shivering, she rubbed at her arms, realizing that whatever it was they were fighting, gangs or mobsters, it was worse than she had ever imagined. 

Even so, the idea seemed ludicrous. Her mind tried to wrap itself around concepts that it refused to accept, and she looked up, meeting the deep eyes of Buffy Summers. 

The face of the comatose girl was reflected there, dark hair and pale skin giving her a fey cast and making her heart ache for the heart-and-soul deep pain carved there, even in the depths of unconsciousness. 

"Her name is Faith." Buffy spoke in a soft whisper, full of guilt and regret that it didn't take a psychologist to hear. "She should have been a friend." 

Sheila found herself speaking without realizing it. "Should have been?" Sucking in breath, she braced herself, gripping the wooden armrests of a cold chair, and kept her eyes locked on the teenager's; it was the hardest thing she had ever done. 

_Someone has to ask._

"What happened at graduation, Buffy?" 

Smiling crookedly, the martial artist shrugged, her gentle caress of the words echoing with hollow bitterness. "Someone killed a lot of my friends and blew up the library." Her smile widened in an ironic mockery of humor. "But at least I graduated. I have the diploma to prove it." 

"Buffy," the older redhead walked around the chair coming to stand on the other side of the bed, leaving Faith sleeping between them. "what's going on? What are you trying to do by bringing me here, and hinting at things but not telling me anything?" 

Something about this conversation was unreal; part of her refused to believe this was happening while another part of her mind rationalized it away, filing it in that place where all mother's store their children's teenage emotional antics, making more of something than is needed, or where they see something that's hidden, some exaggerated game of dramatic angst that teenagers seem to feed on. 

"Because I want you to understand. I _need_ you to understand. That Xander being shot by his father isn't part of it. That there is stuff you don't see, and that you never will. And when Xander is better, and you go back to whatever it is you do, you'll forget this. So please help Xander, and then help us by walking away from it all." 

Willow's mother found herself sitting down in the chair she had so recently used as a support. "Buffy, if you didn't want me to ask, you wouldn't be saying anything." 

Sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, Buffy put her head in her hands. "No, I wouldn't be saying anything if I wasn't scared to death. If my gut didn't tell me something was horribly wrong, and this time I can't do anything about it. That this time, not even I can stop it, because I'm fighting alone. For the first time ever, I'm fighting alone, and I know we'll need someone. Instinct, you understand?" 

Mutely, she nodded, motioning for the younger woman to go on. 

_She is a woman. As much as I am...and as much as my daughter is. They are grown, and have been for longer than anyone dared realize._

"Too many people suddenly turned up missing, you know? Suddenly, Giles, Wesley, and Cordelia are gone -- not just out of touch, or stuck in traffic. They're gone away from here, from Sunnydale; I can feel it. Oz is missing, and Xander has been shot. It's too much at once to handle without back-up. So I'm going to trust you with just as much as I've told you. And if you can leave well enough alone until it's said and done or until we need you, Willow and I will decide together how much to tell you." 

Sheila looked up mutely and nodded, not even pretending to understand what she had just agreed to. She knew she should ask. But something inside her mind refused to ask the question. 

Buffy breathed out a long sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mrs. Rosenberg. I can see where Willow gets her even temper from..." 

"Not from her father, that's for sure!" Willow's voice interrupted Buffy's moment of relief. "I knew you would find your way back here eventually. I think you need Faith as much as she needs you in here..." Her delicate face twisted in distaste, "as much as it hurts me to admit it, you two were good together." 

Buffy and Willow hugged, clinging to each other for support. When they stopped hugging, they didn't let go of each other. Willow was leaning against Buffy, who had her arm around Willow's waist. 

Ira Rosenberg growled under his breath as he walked into the room, watching his daughter hug her friend, his eyes narrowed and his face flushed with both anger and guilt. 

Sheila looked up at her husband and lover, shaking her head. Their eyes met about the same time their hands did, simultaneously turning to face the three girls. 

_There's no doubt that we're in over our heads._

~ * ~ 

By the time Giles and Wesley were done, Cordelia was working on a headache. Of that, Giles was sure. 

She was pacing back and forth, her hair rolling over her shoulders like dark lightning. Some time ago, she had doffed her shoes, revealing that she had forgotten socks in her rush to find him and help Xander. Now, her mind was occupied by the puzzle of people she was offering to help decipher and put back together again in a format two British scholars of undead lore could comprehend. 

"All right guys, I admit it," Cordy threw her manicured hands up in utter disgust, "I'm clueless. Watchers are just fucking nuts!" Her pacing increased in speed and force, each footfall thudding dully into the carpet. "I mean, high school chicks. I can do that. We're all vapid and shallow trying to pretend we're deep pretending we're vapid and shallow. Makes perfect sense. Everything is about image and about everyone else's image of you. Easy, right?" 

_No, not really._ Giles and Wesley were positive they had shared a moment of telepathy right then, and from they way their eyes had met, it was more than probable. 

They both stared at her while she mentally ran through everything they had told her about decades old feuds over the interpretations of obscure prophecies, over the assignment and training of Watcher-candidates to how much a Watcher told his or her Slayer or Slayer-in-Training. Trials and hearings over heresy and debates about policy, and even about who sat where in Grand Convocations, or who got what key to what library when. 

Continuing, Cordelia raked her hands through her hair. "But come on, people, what is it about tweed that makes you lose your sense of self? All this debate over interpretations and over who's right and who's wrong and who's smartest and who's oldest....and..." 

She stopped pacing, and started laughing. 

She was laughing. At them. And they both knew it. Chuckling as if someone had told her the world's greatest joke, Cordy's eyes lit up with a mischievous fire that Giles was torn between being fearful of and excited about. 

"It's the same thing, isn't it? All you guys are doing is proving who's the best Watcher the same way I proved I was most popular. But you can't be fashion divas, you all wear tweed. You are how you dress, I always say. Watchers dress boring, so you are boring. And you fight about boring stuff." 

Blinking to himself at having himself aptly compared to a teenage homecoming queen, Giles coughed lightly, wiping at the lenses of his glasses with the edge of his coat. 

"I fear that Cordelia has the right of it." He was looking into the chagrined and humiliated eyes of his fellow Watcher as he spoke, guiltily grateful that Wesley was far more culpable than he of such offenses. He had only summoned demons, maimed, tortured and possibly contributed to the death of innocents; he _had not, _under all but the most extreme circumstances, engaged in Council politics. 

"You mean to say that the Watcher's Council, a highly respected, ancient and venerable association and brotherhood devoted to keeping the world from being swallowed by eternal darkness is just a macroscopic parody of an American _high school_?" Wesley's pitch increased with each word until he was almost screeching. 

Rubbing at her ear, Cordelia gifted her one-time kissing partner a withering glare of perfectly timed scorn. Wes wilted under it, shrinking back in a way that would have done any of Cordy's teenage victims proud. "Puh-lease, Miss Man, sing soprano _outside_ the first class. And _duh_. You people are more boringly juvenile that I am! Or even Xander Harris! At least he can stand up for himself from time to time instead of whining about everything!" 

With a final 'humph' Cordelia Chase sat flopped down into a seat by the window, making it look as regal as a queen taking her seat. Silence descended, broken only by the constant low-throated growl of the jet engines propelling them towards England at almost the speed of sound. 

Staring at the disheveled and barefoot high school glamour girl, Giles almost shuddered. 

_I get the most unpleasant feeling that she is going to fit right in. And that the Council is in no way ready for Cordelia Chase._

A slow smile spread over Ripper's face as he slid his glasses back on. 

_Good._

~ * ~ 

He hadn't ever been to an airport alone before, and found himself strangely excited about the prospect. 

_New experiences are good._

Shouldering his one small bag, once again feeling a pang of regret for the guitar he was leaving behind and a stab of deeply personal pain at the friends he was going to have to betray, Daniel Osbourne ran his hand through his freshly dyed green hair and sighed a soul-deep sigh. 

There was no one to see him off, but that didn't bother him. The one person who could have been there wasn't welcome and the one person he wanted there couldn't be there because he would have had to kill her. 

Curses sucked like that; he should know. This was the second one he had gotten that had pushed him farther from Willow, farther from the woman he loved. 

_This would be easier if she didn't make life worth living._

Laughing at himself, Oz strode towards the gate with an enigmatic smile plastered across his serene face. 

_Whoa...if you had your piece, you could be one hell of blues player right now._

The flirty attendant was too falsely cheerful for the easy natured teen, but he was able to make enough polite conversation to escape her mandatory attentions relatively unscathed. Flying coach was easy, because he wasn't expected to be anyone or do anything. The band had flown first class once, on their first out of town gig; the record label had insisted. It had been a miserable flight, because everyone had known they were a band, and things had gotten uncomfortable when the fundamentalist preachers going to a seminary conference had begun to rail against rock and roll. 

Yeah, coach was easier. Quieter. More people, but quieter. 

Settling into his seat, Oz debated about giving into the stereotype of the hero having to leave for the sake of love and pulling out his photo of Willow so he could stare into her green eyes until they landed in London. It was a nonstop flight, after all. 

No...that would breed questions, and he didn't want to answer any more questions. 

Besides, the picture he had in his mind was more like the real Willow...vibrant, alive and beautiful...and his. His comfort, his partner, now his lover, and always his heart and soul. 

Smiling in amusement at himself, he saw his hands here in position to hold a guitar and strum the music to life in honor of her. Shaking his head, he leaned back to close his eyes and breathed out slowly, focused on his task at hand. 

He had two weeks. Two weeks before the full moon, and before he had to lock himself away for a week to protect everyone else. Two weeks. 

It was long enough. He could work that fast. He had to, for her sake. For everyone's sake. 

As he heard the captain's voice over the intercom and the flight attendant's echo it, Oz relaxed even deeper, listening to the engines thrum to life and start pushing the plane forward, he had a thought. He blamed it on the politicians; on The Man. 

_It's all just The Man trying to keep me down..._

That thought kept him smiling in ironic amusement all the way to London. It was the first time in his life he had ever truly fit a stereotype. 


	4. AS4 The Morning After

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Author's Reference Note: This is now the morning after Graduation Day.**   


* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Morning After**

She woke up facing the sun. Streaks of sunlight slid through the minuscule cracks between her eyelids, burning the dream out of her mind. Gasping, she sat bold upright in his bed, and stared out his window at the dawning light, drinking in the warmth that filtered through the curtains. 

Peeling off the sweat - and - rain dampened sheets, she slid out of his bed and walked over to the window, standing before the sun; her savior and her shelter from the creature she was called to hunt. Rays of warmth caressed her bare skin, gently brushing away the chill of the previous night's rain, stroking away the fear of the nightmares with a lover's touch. 

A lover. Him. Rupert Giles. A British name for a British man, with rugged features masked in expressions of aristocratic sarcasm and gentle worry for a world, and a father's love for the girl supposed to save it. 

Buffy Summers. The Slayer. 

He might have been her lover, if not for the Slayer. Somehow, that hurt. A dull ache, deep in her chest, where her emotions where supposed to rest. 

Shivering at memories that weren't quite hers, Janna rubbed her shoulders and turned away from the window. _I need to get dressed and I need to warn the Slayer._

"Good morning, Jenny Calendar." 

The little man was sitting on her bed, dressed in a painfully loud shirt and outdated leather clothes from the sixties -- and even then, he would have been tacky. He blinked at her, and smiled gently. "Wow. I can see why he fell in love with you." 

Refusing to let herself blush, Janna looked at him. There was no reason to be embarrassed; the little man would be dead in moments. But she needed a few answers first. 

"Who's Jenny Calendar? And who are you?" 

Memories flickered on the edge of her mind; running barefoot beside the wagons as a child amongst the Kalderash, and standing in front of a classroom, her dulcet voice explaining the mysteries of technology that were as arcane as any magic she dared learn in her quest to guard the torment of the fallen demon. 

He eased from the shadows that splotched the room to the light with such simplicity, it seemed as if he was almost beyond their touch, and paced back and forth, playing with things sitting around on the elegant oak dresser. Everything in the room was a study in understated traditional elegance put together with pieces of frugal and unpretentious furniture and knickknacks, adding that deeply personal feel that made English decorating such a powerful statement. 

"I'm your only friend in this. I'm the only one that knows why you aren't still dead and who you were when you were alive the last time." He seemed cloaked in a darkly quiet stillness that battled against the frantically nervous energy that drove him to keep moving. 

"That means you need me, Jenny Calendar." 

Shaking her head, waist length tresses of raven hair fell over her shoulders, granting her a small semblance of modesty. "My name is Janna, of the Kalderash. Not Jenny Calendar. And if you can help me find the Slayer, then I need you. If all you're going to do is ogle me and talk cryptic nonsense, then I don't." 

Her gut was roiling with the butterflies practicing marching drills on the walls of her stomach as flickers of feeling clenched the muscles behind her midriff. Guilt was first, followed the remembered scent of aftershave as her hand touched his, briefly, lightly, under a table where neither of them had to admit it happened. And how beautiful that simple touch had been...how that simple touch had kept her warm and smiling all day no matter what demon had threatened them. 

Demon. She had to kill a demon. 

Angel. More emotion ran through her. She knew him; regret mingling with grudging respect, knowing he had made the best of his torment, seeking redemption in the blood of those he had once lead. 

Angelus. He was fear incarnate. Controlled chaos and terror brought to life in a single moment of brilliant failure and staggering pain that had cursed her with him for the rest of his days. Until she killed him. Until he died. Until she cleansed her debt to her people. 

Which meant she could never re-pay her betrayal of the Slayer. Of the man she wanted so desperately to love. 

"You're remembering some now, aren't you? No fun, I know. This part always hurts. But that pain is good; it reminds you what's really at stake." The little man's soft voice held a depth of authority even she couldn't deny. "You know, we both failed. And your curse gives us that second chance we weren't supposed to have. This time, you have to stop him, because if the Slayer does it twice, she'll break." 

He paused and sat on the bed with his chin on his hands. "That's the problem with Slayer's you know. They're alone...and when they're alone, they're powerful, fearless, cornered animals. But they're alone. They always hurt...and eventually, the pain breaks them." 

Tears streaked down her flawless face. 

"That pain broke you, Jenny Calendar. You made a mistake in seeing past vengeance and past anger to see what really had to be done. And you did it. But it hurt, what you had to do. So your people cursed you to follow him now, and stop him whenever his torment ends." 

Looking up, her dark eyes met his as she drew in a sharp breath. "That means..." 

Nodding somberly, the little man shrugged. "Yeah. I know." He tilted his head to one side. "Are you up to this Jenny Calendar?" 

Janna shook he head. "I wasn't then and I'm not now." 

Nodding again, the little man smiled slightly. "Good to hear you say that. I'll teach you. But first, I should be a gentleman and tell you my name." His pause wasn't for dramatics as much as it was to let the shivering woman soak up what he had said. "I'm Whistler." 

Outside the window, dark clouds were floating over the sun. 

~ * ~ 

"Perfect! Oh, this is just perfect!" Grinning like a boy let loose in a candy shop, the former mayor leaned back into the seat of his limousine, staring out at the old mansion through deeply tinted windows. "Brilliant idea, lad, just brilliant!" 

"It has a nice homey feel to it, don't you think?" The dark figure asked in a mockingly deep voice, while sinking further into the shadows. "A perfect place for both our new home and a perfect place to trap the Slayer..." 

"Yes, yes it is!" Looking concerned, the Mayor tilted his head towards the two men in the limo with him. In but one night, they had proven themselves to be dependable and resourceful, and he was counting on them as important members of his staff to help advise him. The best leaders always listened to their subordinates, because they often saw what he wouldn't. Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses after all. "But you don't mind giving it up, do you? I don't want to take if you really want to keep it!" 

Laughing coldly, the dark figure shrugged his broad shoulders. "No. I want it to be yours. Perfect dramatic irony is a beautiful thing, don't you think?" 

The mayor laughed with him. "Oh, I think this is the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial friendship!" 

A flicker of flame followed by the acrid scent of cigarette smoke filled the dark cabin. "You daft blokes enjoy your games and your bloody irony. I'm going to worry about the Slayer and her friends instead of toying with them. You both should bloody well know by now that the little blonde chit isn't some cute trollop. It always works the same bloody way. The most irritating thing is that we never seem to learn!" Spike raised his voice so he sounded like a woman. "Oh. Let's play a little game with the Slayer, I will crack her and crush her and smash her and eat her and do all sorts of lovely things. I will put her in a doll collection...wheee!" He reverted back to his normal tone. "When in all reality all it would take is a frontal. We've done it before. Hell, even the Poofter did it once and what was the final score on that eve? Scoobs nearly broken and one slayer down. No games, no fuss, no muss," He grinned, "Crunch goes the good guys." 

The dark figure shifted, resting his arm across Spike's shoulders. "Spike, old boy...there's nothing to worry about. We've got you to watch our backs...and I know that when your 'bollocks' are on the chopping block, you are very, very good at doing that. We'll play our games and break the Slayer while the 'Big Bad' makes sure she stays broke for good, don't you think?" 

The mayor nodded. "Hmm...yes. William, I'm proud of you. That took a lot of guts to say what you really thought about our little plan. And I'm glad you did. I really makes me feel much better that our little inner council has a voice of reason. You're right William. The Slayer is strong, and fast, and has friends that keep her from going off half-cocked. Just like what you did for us right now. So, how about this, William, Liam, why don't we adjourn to my office with Drusilla and plan this out a bit more, this time taking into account that the Slayer seems to always win. Sound good to you fellas?" 

Taking a deep drag off the cigarette, Spike narrowed his eyes. It was hard to tell when the Mayor was mocking you or being serious, and guessing wrong could be fatal. 

The dark figure growled an answer. 

Rubbing his hands together, the mayor nodded enthusiastically. "Well then, let's go." He tapped the window and signaled the driver to go back. "I'll send work crews over first thing while you two arrange refreshments and get my secretary." 

"Work crews?" The two vampires stared hard at each other, each not wanting to admit they had spoken at the same time. 

"Yes, work crews. There is a lot of work that needs to be done there to prepare it. A new wing, I think, and some furnishing. A large, modern bedroom with a balcony, for starters, and then other amenities both you will appreciate." 

Spike laughed. "Bloody beautiful! You're going to use city workers to fix up the mansion!" 

Looking aghast, the mayor shook his head no. "William, for shame! I would never use city funds in such an inappropriate manner! That money belongs to the tax payers of Sunnydale!" 

The dark figure chuckled. "Besides, it's more trouble than it's worth. To do that, he'd have to come back from the dead. The last thing we need is any kind of press." 

The limo's engine growled as it pulled onto the highway. 

"Oh, and William, put that out! Smoking is a disgustingly unsanitary habit!" 

~ * ~ 

It took something like nine hours of surgery to put Xander Harris back together again. 

Now in a Intensive Care ward down the hall from Faith's Willow Rosenberg and Buffy Summers were sleeping curled up on a spare bed, both of them facing Xander. The small redhead had her back pressed against Buffy's chest, spooning against the Slayer in an unconscious grasp for comfort she was too afraid to ask for aloud. Buffy had pressed up against her friend, wrapping an arm around Willow's waist. 

Every time the two spent the night in the same bed, they seemed to end up like that. 

Every time she saw it, Joyce Summers wanted to cry. Sometimes they clung to each other like they were drowning, and other times it was more tender than lovers. She hated to think about what they had seen to create that kind of need. 

But seeing Xander laying in a hospital bed nearly dead from the gun wielded by his own his own father made her see red. Cold rage and hot anger warred in her chest, and she knew that if she ever saw Mr. Harris face to face, he would learn from which side of the family Buffy got the pure violence she needed to be Slayer. Never, not once, had she allowed herself to interfere in his life, no matter how much every fiber of her ached to. It was his world and if he wanted her help...well, she had made sure he knew it was available. But Xander had never accepted her offer. 

This time, she could help him. This time, there was no one to stop her. She had extra bedrooms and she had a place at her table. 

She took another step into the room, and Buffy leapt off the bed, her eyes wide. "Mom!" 

Joyce held her daughter to her, whispering soothing nothings and stroking her hair just she had when Buffy had been a little girl with nightmares night after night. Buffy clung to her mother desperately, a few tears leaking out. 

"What is it, honey?" 

Only a mother could have made sense of the ensuing rush of babble distorted by her face buried in Joyce's shoulder. "Xander is hurt, Oz, Giles, Cordelia and Wesley are missing, Angel is staying I think, I stabbed Faith and I know that something horrid is going to happen soon even though we stopped the Mayor by blowing up the school and..." 

Joyce's stomach sank to the floor. _I think my daughter and I need to have a long talk later._

She had always suspected that eventually being Slayer and holding her secrets would break something inside her, and that Buffy would need her there. Smiling into her daughter's hair, Joyce knew that she was finally going to be let back inside her daughter's life. 

_"You'll get me killed if you stay."_ She had never been prouder of Buffy the moment she had spoken those words, and had never hurt worse, not even when her husband of almost seventeen years had left her for a twenty-year old secretary. She knew her daughter was acting in the best interest for more than just them; she acting on her best judgment to protect the world. 

_Every night the weight of the world is on my daughter's shoulders. I want to be allowed to give my daughter a few moments to just be a daughter. And someday, I want her to know just how proud of her I am. I keep telling her, but I don't think she hears._

Buffy stayed in her mother's arms like that for a minute, drawing the emotional reserves she needed from the woman who had raised her. She didn't know how her mother always had something else to give, or how she always managed to give it, but Buffy was more grateful for it right then than ever before. All of the emotions of the past six weeks were catching up to her in a rush. 

She took in he mother's appearance and blinked, stepping back. "Have you had a chance to get home yet?" 

Joyce shook her head. "I came as soon as I got your message. How is he?" She gestured to Xander, allowing herself to wait before she asked about the mayor and the school. It had taken time, but Buffy had told her everything about Pike and Merrick, and then Angel and the death of Kendra and Jenny Calendar. She trusted her daughter to eventually tell her what was happening now. 

"He's not good. He'll be okay though. The doctors have him sedated, but Will and I won't leave until he's awake and knows what happened. I...I think he'll need us...but he'll need Will more than me." 

There was a note of something very sad in her daughter's voice as she said the last; but only a mother would have been able to hear it. Joyce squeezed her arm gently. "You know he'll want you both there." 

Buffy gave her tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, mom..." 

"Buffy...I'm glad you're up! Oh...hello, Joyce!" Sheila Rosenberg slid into the room, her fashionable clothes of earlier exchanged for jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. She had a small duffel bag of clothes for the girls over her shoulder. Throwing that to Buffy, she shrugged. "Here are some clothes for you girls. I think there's something in there that might fit you. And I talked to a doctor...I think we have another day or so before they wake him up. Both of you should get home and get some real sleep, or at least some real food. I promise I won't let them wake him without you both here." 

Buffy nodded and walked over to shake Willow awake. Already, Joyce saw some of her old fire was burning in her eyes. 

"Willow...com'on Wills, wake up..." 

Willow batted at Buffy's hand. "Uhhh.....no....sleep...." 

Buffy shook her again. "Willow...please...." 

Willow scooted closer to the blonde, nuzzling up against her leg. Buffy's face softened, and her fingertips brushed across her cheek, caressing an errant strand of red hair behind Willow's ear. Leaning down, she whispered something into her friend's ear. 

Groaning, Willow sat up. Buffy smiled at her. "That sounded almost human, Will..." 

"You woke me up." The redhead pouted, rubbing her eyes. Buffy swore she looked like nothing more than a groggy kitten, but resisted the urge to tell her so. Hospital pillows made good projectiles. 

"Mommy....?" Willow said, looking up at her mother. 

"We brought clothes." Sheila gave a small smile at her daughter. 

"Oh. Okay. That's nice. Thank you." 

Sleepy Willow-babble was slightly more translatable than most other kinds of Willow-babble. She had to speak slower while she woke up. 

Sensing that his daughter might be half-asleep enough for him to apologize, safely, Ira dashed to her side and pulled her into a tight hug. Sleepy and suddenly surrounded by warm arms, Willow snuggled against her father. "Mmmm...I love you, Daddy..." There was a lot more pain, and maybe a few tears in that voice that Ira hadn't expected to hear. He held his daughter tightly for a moment, a few tears of his own running into his carefully cultivated beard. 

He whispered to his daughter

"Mom...can you take the Rosenbergs to our house? Willow and I need to talk before we talk to them." Buffy whispered to her mother, her fingertips running along Xander's limp arm, her eyes studying his face. 

Joyce nodded slowly, suspected what her daughter had in mind. Considering her opinion of both Xander and Willow's family lives, she wanted to be there. "Of course. Buffy...are you going to..." 

Her daughter shrugged, still staring at Xander. "Maybe, mom. Maybe. It's up to Will." 

Joyce looked over to where Ira was rocking his once again sleeping daughter in his arm. "All right." 

~ * ~ 

Willow and Buffy both dived for the bag Sheila left with them as soon as the door shut, sorting out the clothes in a rapid-fire fashion that only teenage women, Broadway performers and crack military outfits could manage without making a mess. 

Both started to change, eager to be out of clothes that either didn't fit or they had been wearing for almost thirty-six hours, but stopped as they turned to look at Xander. 

"You know...he's gonna be pissed he slept through this." Buffy commented, stripping off her shirt and sports bra, replacing them with a tank top borrowed from Willow. Tugging at the hem of the tight shirt, she looked down at herself and shrugged in resignation. "At least it's black." 

Willow giggled. "Yeah, Xander's gonna be mad he missed this." She frowned a little. "I didn't know I _had_ any black clothes though." 

Shrugging her bare shoulders, Buffy grinned back. "You don't, anymore." 

Willow paused after slipping into her skirt, blouse and fuzzy sweater. "Buffy...are we going to tell them?" 

Stepping into a pair of jeans she had left at Willow's months ago, Buffy looked at her friend. "Your choice, Wills. They're your parents." Zipping the jeans up, Buffy blinked. "Wow. I've lost some weight." 

Willow slapped her arm. "That's not always a good thing, you know!" Sometimes, she worried more about Buffy than she liked to let on. And the Slayer had lost a lot of weight since the start of the school year. Willow sighed, pulling on her sneakers. "But it's _your_ secret to tell!" 

Buffy sat down on the edge of Xander's bed, her fingertip lightly resting on his arm. "And you have to deal with their reactions. It's your call. I'll tell them, but you have to tell me I can." 

Swallowing, she barely noticed that her hand had found Xander's. "I think we may need their help this time." 

Noticing that Buffy was holding Xander's hand, she smiled softly to herself, wondering why seeing that left a hollow ache in her chest. "We'll tell them." 

Buffy's fingers played with Xander's hair as she met Willow's eyes. "Only if you want to." 

Willow sat down in front of Buffy and leaned towards her friend just enough so that they were almost touching. "I think I do. For his sake, if nothing else."   


**Chapter Eight: Almost Getting Answers**

"Aren't you _ever_ going to get dressed?!" 

Grinning impishly, Janna sat down at the table with her mug of tea and hot blueberry pop tarts. Who would have guessed? Rupert Giles ate pop tarts. "Not as long as it makes you squirm, little man. I never would have thought an immortal balance demon with bad sixty's fashion sense to be prudish. Hmm." 

"Don't you have any shame? Or modesty?" Whistler almost whined. 

Setting the mug down, the gypsy turned towards him, her long dark hair and dark eyes crackling like black lightning. "No, not really. I lost both when I was killed by a crazed vampire for trying to restore his soul so I could be allowed to fall in love with a man destined to die at the side of a sarcastic teenage blonde with bad taste in men and even worse taste in shoes." 

Turning back to the table, she sipped her tea. "If you're so worried about it, then use your demonic powers and conjure up something I can wear. Everything he's got doesn't fit." 

Whistler shook her head. "Sorry, but it doesn't work like that. I can help in a cryptic and not so direct way, but I can't interfere directly. Not even so much as to get you dressed." His irritating grin came back full-force. "And as nice a sight as you are naked, you need to go find the Slayer here pretty soon. We both know that." 

Munching on a mouthful of pop-tart, Janna shrugged one bare shoulder. "After I eat, I'll figure something out. This _is_ California after all, and the Hellmouth on top of that...there has to be a way to get some kind of clothes delivered, or something." 

The balance demon shrugged back, returning to his habit of pacing and searching through the kitchen cabinets. "I wouldn't know about that. I have to special order mine." 

"I don't doubt it." Janna mumbled under her breath, polishing off her second pop-tart and washing it down with the last of her tea. "Why do I have to find the Slayer at all, Whistler? Why can't I just go kill Angelus myself and then die again like a good and stealthy little Kalderash assassin? Why do I have to face the Slayer?" 

Whistler raised an appreciative eyebrow at Giles vastly expanded liquor selection. "Now this is what I'm talking about. I can almost see why you liked him so much. As for the Slayer, well, you're here to be punished, really. It's all part of the emotional torture thing, and fate seems to be helping. Your people are pretty good at this curse stuff, you know that? They know you can't kill Angelus right now, magic or no magic. He's too smart, too canny, too old, too experienced and has way too much pride to back out. You are outgunned, outnumbered, and outclassed in a big way." 

Smiling at her, Whistler winked. "Now the Slayer, on the other hand. She could have him, just like that-" He snapped his fingers in front of his face for emphasis, "and leave him floating away on the wind. You need her to kill him." 

Standing, Janna hugged herself. "And that means talking to her. And to him. And dealing with the emotions of memories I don't rightfully have, or even want? And I have to watch the hell I put them through while I turn the Slayer against her lover again, and let her feel the pain of killing him twice. And then watch her go mad." 

Whistler nodded to himself as he found what he was looking for. "Almost. It's subtler than that, and so much more cruel. You can't kill Angelus, but she can. Angelus can't kill her, even soulless. She's too strong, for one. And for two, if he kills her, then there will be nothing left for him to do; no challenge. So subconsciously, he'll always lose just enough to let her go." 

Janna sank down the floor, closing her eyes. "Oh gods. That's it, isn't it? Angelus is the only one who can break the Slayer's friends and keep them broken. He did it once before. Only he can isolate the Slayer enough to make her listen to what I have to tell her. And then only I can kill the Slayer when she goes mad." 

Whistler shrugged. "Maybe. It might be worse than that. Like I said, you people know your curses."

He poured himself some breakfast in a large tumbler, swirling the dark amber liquid around appreciatively. 

"Why?" Her voice was a hoarsely croaking whisper. 

"Magic is funny that way. Too many people trying to play with the same part of it, and odd stuff happens. The Powers that Be, they can only interfere so much, so they gave you me to try to make this work out for the best. But the new big bad and your people, well they've messed with enough stuff to make this happen this way. And I can't do much more than even the odds with a little hidden hint here and there. You gotta do what you gotta do, no matter what else happens. And that's all part of being cursed." 

"I didn't want this. I didn't earn this. I don't deserve this." Janna spat out the words, curling tighter into herself. 

"You really think that matters?" Whistler asked, kneeling down next to her. "You have a choice. You can hide in Giles' old house, naked and crying on the floor until it's over and the world is ended with it, or you can get up and do something about it." 

Snarling, Janna leapt back up, pacing violently. "Like what?" 

"You figure that part out. I told him a lot of this just a few years ago, near a hot dog stand in Manhattan, and he went off and fell in love with the Slayer. Look where that got us?" 

He thew back a few swallows of liquor, and smacked his lips. 

"What is that supposed to tell me, demon?!" She stormed up the stairs, her bare feet landing heavily on the stairs. 

"Not much, except look out for choices you don't mean to make." 

"You have to be the most useless help I've ever been given." 

Whistler gave a small laugh. "I think that's the idea. I can give you ideas, or even answer some questions if you know the right ones to ask, but I can't really help you?" 

Throwing on one of Giles button-up shirts, Janna sat down at his desk and met the balance demon's eyes firmly, a slight smile quirking into place on her expressive face. 

"What are the right questions to ask?" 

Whistler smiled back, sitting on the bed. "Now we're getting somewhere." 

~ * ~ 

He barely made it out in time. St. Clair had never meant to fall asleep, much less on the couch. When he had awoken, it had been by his magical alarm, not by the sun streaming in on his face from the window, or even the small alarm on his watch beeping loudly. 

His senses told him that Joyce Summers was on her way home, without her daughter. 

Groaning, he rolled off the couch and onto the floor with a thud. Wincing, St. Clair picked himself up, cursing himself for moving onto the couch after starting his own Watcher's diary on his breaking and entering the Slayer's home. 

He heard a car in the driveway. 

Scrambling, he had gathered up the diaries and the duffel bags and rushed towards the closed door, chanting under his breath. Shimmering light surrounded him as he fairly leapt through his portal and into his own living room. 

He didn't notice, or even think about the two diaries he had left on the coffee table. His, and one other. 

~ * ~ 

Joyce was happiest when she was in her kitchen. She didn't know why, really; she was a good cook, but not spectacular. But it did seem that she always did her best work in this kitchen, fixing hot chocolate and tea and food for that small cadre of silent and unlikely warriors that went about saving Sunnydale, the world, and her daughter's life more often than any of them wanted to think about. It was her one, small contribution to keeping the world safe from the baddies that had a deep desire to see her and everyone else dead. 

It was in the kitchen she was actually a part of her daughter's life. 

_If Buffy and Willow are about to do what I think they are going to do, then I think I need to check the liquor cabinet._

"Please, come in and sit down. Can I get you anything?" 

She had plenty of practice playing hostess to people she barely knew. It was one of her finer-honed skills, developed through dedicated effort over the past four years of her daughter's career as Slayer. 

Nervously, the Rosenbergs sat down at the kitchen table, discreetly holding hands under the table. Joyce tried not to wince when she saw this, feeling a familiar pang of loss at her husband's absence. _I miss him and so does his daughter, but I don't think he could handle this. Any of it._

She breathed out a slow sigh of relief when she realized she had several kosher wines stowed away in the back of her small liquor cabinet. Being the curator of the gallery in Sunnydale had exposed Joyce to a variety of cultures and customs, and she had unconsciously started to live her life in a way that prepared her to deal with all of them. 

_Not a bad habit, if I do say so myself._

"Why do I get the feeling you know more about what's going on here than I do?" Ira asked dryly. "And if you have any, I'd love some black coffee. It's still too early in the morning for anything else." 

There was a note of reproach in his voice as Joyce got out the wine. She smiled to herself. "There are mugs and a coffee pot by the stove. Help yourself. And I have the distinct feeling that Buffy and Willow are going to explain everything to you as soon as they get here." 

_Buffy seems to have making her little secret have as much impact as possible down to an art form. For me, it was a vampire attack on my front porch hours before she had to murder her lover. For Willow and Xander, it was an attack at the Bronze that drew them deeper and deeper into the world of vampire slaying. And now for the Rosenbergs, it's going to be a slap in the face that they've been ignoring their daughter._

_But it always gets revealed when they desperately need help. And I think Mr. Giles and their friends having disappeared is a good time to ask for help._

A familiar chill settled into Joyce's gut as she forced those thoughts out of her mind, determined once again to provide cheerful if nervous support for the Scooby Gang. 

Pouring coffee for himself and his wife, he added sugar and creamer to one mug and turned to Joyce. "Coffee?" 

A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Please. Lots of sugar, no cream." 

Ira set about making her coffee with the consummate ease of a man long and well familiar with the restorative effects of the fragrant beverage. 

All three of them sat around the table, where Joyce casually engaged them in small talk, drawing them into an animated conversation about Ira's studies and Sheila's latest book on early childhood development. Ira and Joyce quickly found themselves covering common ground of cultural anthropology. He, like Joyce had a master's degree in the field and followed it closely. Ira did more field work while Joyce spent her time running galleries and handling research. 

Sheila let herself fall silent, knowing how much her husband enjoyed talking to a newfound colleague while she sipped her coffee and tried to wait for the girls to arrive. Her stomach churned as she talked a bit about her newest book, guilt making her want to burn the manuscript. She felt herself capable of teaching others about children when she didn't know her own. But that was the way it seemed to work, wasn't it? 

It wasn't long before Buffy and Willow walked through the door, serious and somber looks on their faces. Joyce raised an eyebrow at the shirt Buffy was almost wearing. 

Ira raised an eyebrow at the 'Resolve Face' his daughter wore; he had seen that expression enough times to know whatever was coming -- and he had already lost the argument. 

The two girls took seats next to each other at the table with their parents, hazel and green eyes matching gazes with both of the Rosenbergs in turn. 

Joyce stood up to get the wine. 

Willow took a deep breath, spoke softly. "Mom, dad...I think Buffy needs to explain." 

* * *

  
**I know guys, this chapter was a little shorter and was full of fun little filler scenes, but I have to set the stage for Xander to wake up and for the plot to really move. Next time, there will be lots more serious stuff....and the chapter will be long enough that it may take awhile.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~alan, the mad dragon**   


* * *


	5. AS5 The Ides of England

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Author's Reference Note: I'm gonna be honest folks. I tried, I really did, but I can't get the time differentials between here and England quite right...so just play along. :) Thanks!**   


* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Ides of England**

Cordelia Chase was not a happy woman by any stretch of the imagination. She did not want to be here, walking off of a plane onto English soil sans make-up and any form of passport or money -- in the middle of the night. Somehow, it was the middle of the night when she had left almost twelve hours ago, and it was the middle of the night again when she had arrived. 

Her first impression of England was that it was _cold._ In the summer. _Is it even summer here?_

Hugging herself to stay warm, she stared up at the sky and silently wished for Sunnydale in all it's Hellmouthy glory. 

And worse yet was the reception committee. A half dozen tweed-clad Watcher's and three or four young girls hovering about with almost awed reverence, each and every one of them clad in dark shirt, pants, boots and jacket like feminine commandos while Cordelia was dressed like a housewife spending a Saturday doing laundry. 

_And I think I might dress better to do laundry. This is my 'wake up and go out in a panic to find the stuffy English guy' outfit, not my 'meet the Watchers and Buffy-wannabes' outfit. These people need to get with the program and get me a hotel room, room service, dinner, and new clothes, before I get annoyed._

"Are _you_ the Slayer?" One of the girls asked in an incredulous tone dripping with scorn. She was slightly taller than Cordy, with spiked, bleach-blonde hair and bold blue eyes that scanned the already aggravated and jet lagged woman up and down. 

_Too late. I'm annoyed._

Turning the gaze that had cowed even the formidable Xander Harris upon the bleached-blonde fourteen-year-old that had _dared_ to address Queen C as an inferior, dark eyes smoldering like heated steel, Cordelia raised an eyebrow and quirked her lip into a sardonically patronizing half smile. 

The Slayer-in-Training took a step back as Cordelia stepped forward. 

"Oh dear," Giles muttered under his breath, silently pondering how he was going to explain the emotional devastation of a SiT to Quentin. 

"No, I'm not the Slayer. But you," Cordelia managed to put more arrogant condescension into those last two words than any of the onlookers would have thought possible, "have some serious issues to work out, little girl, if you think you could be. I've _killed_ more vampires than you're likely to _see._" Turning her nose up at the SiT, Cordy hmphed indelicately, turning to Giles. "What is _she _supposed to be?" 

Coughing politely, Giles muttered, "Well, I do believe she is a possible candidate to be Slayer if Buffy or Faith were to ... ahem ... " 

This time, Cordy actually snorted. "Right. I could tie her in knots and scrape the bunions off Snyder's feet with her hair." 

With a cry of incoherent rage, the tall blonde leapt at Cordelia, her hands outstretched for her throat. The Watchers tried to call her back, but her well-honed rage had already taken over. 

Cordelia Chase was not a fighter, but she had not taken years of self-defense and had not been helping Buffy for the past couple of years without learning _something_ about idiotically charging a better positioned opponent; after all, it seemed to be newly-risen vampires' favorite means of attack. The summer before this one, when Buffy had been on her sojourn to LA, Cordy had helped with some of the patrols and had learned a few techniques. 

In what appeared to be an effortless motion, Cordy stepped to the side, grabbed the back of the girl's neck, and rammed her knee full force into the SiT's solar plexus. An as a life-long dancer and cheerleader, Cordy made the blow _count_. In that brief second of physical contact, the SiT learned a valuable lesson in both humility and tactics. With a contemptuous shove, Cordy pushed the crumpled would-be Slayer to one side of the ramp and brushed her hair over her shoulders. 

The girl collapsed in a gasping heap at Cordelia's bare feet. Smiling sweetly, Cordy shrugged. "Whoa, testosterone much?" For a second, her eyes winced at the damage she had just caused, showing the sympathy she couldn't allow her face show before her gaze sharpened and slashed across the collective gazes of the assembled Watchers. 

"Keep your puppies in check boys. They're not very well trained." 

Wesley gave a choked cough that could have been a suppressed laugh or a stunned surprise, but nobody paid any more attention to him than it took to see that he wasn't choking to death or something else that would involve removal of his body. 

A confident sway back in her hips, Cordelia walked the rest of the way down the gangway, delicately stepping over the body of the sobbing girl, trying not to cringe in guilty sympathy. 

Following in a state of shock, Giles raised an eyebrow. "My. Well, if that wasn't unexpected." 

~ * ~ 

"Rupert, why didn't you tell me your girl could fight?" Quentin Travers walked up beside his one-time friend, resting a hand on Giles' shoulder. 

_Because I didn't bloody well know, you blasted windbag._

Rupert Giles was nothing if not tactful. "It didn't seem appropriate. Miss Chase is quite a bit more than she seems, Quentin, and you would do well to remember that. She has, in fact, faced both Angelus and William the Bloody, and has handled vampires, demons, and quite a bit else besides. Better, I expect, than one of your most gifted trainees might." 

_In fact, I would wager my library against your fortune, Quentin, that any one of my Scooby Gang would lay out any one of your toy Slayers in less time than it takes Xander to eat a twinkie._

Quentin laughed. "Dear boy, after that little demonstration, I believe you! In fact, if you and young Wesley had a hand in teaching that remarkable young lady, then I would think that the Council will have to re-evaluate just what we are planning to do with you two." 

Taking off his glasses and cleaning them on the hem of his jacket, Giles gave a slight shrug. "That is the Council's prerogative, of course." 

"Funny to hear you say that, Rupert, when just a few months back you were calling us all old fools with no sense at all. Has that opinion changed?" Quentin moved his hand from Giles shoulder, gesturing for the Watcher's and their charges to fall in with them. Wesley waited a moment and fell in at the back of the line, watching carefully. For once, he prudently didn't speak. 

Giles slipped his glasses back on his face, and regarded Travers with a guarded expression of restrained anger. "Not in the least." 

Heaving a tired sigh, the Councilman shrugged. "I'm sorry to hear you say that, Rupert. And I think, so would your father. Your family has..." 

"My family has served this Council with distinction far longer than yours, Quentin. And my father would be in tears to see what has come of his life's work since it has passed into your inept hands! Don't presume to tell me what my father would say when your ill-considered and misguided scheming drove him to an early grave." 

"Rupert, don't interrupt me when I'm speaking. Respect and family aside, you are a prisoner right now. I had truly hoped that you had come to your senses about Council policy and would be willing to put that unfortunate Cruciamentum test fiasco behind us, but I can see that you are still more emotionally involved with your Slayers than is wise." 

Giles strode ahead of the older Watcher, not even looking over his shoulder as he shot back. "Wisdom, Quentin, is a commodity one gains by experience. Something you have precious little of when it comes to Slayers." 

~ * ~ 

Darkness was an odd concept most times -- philosophers and scientists have often argued about whether darkness was the absence of light, or the opposite of light -- or if both possible definitions mean the same thing. 

But darkness always meant demons could come out and play. 

The way of the cosmos has always been to find a balance for all things, an opposite that is a compliment and vice versa. There had always been various cliques and sects of humankind or the more benevolent otherworldly that tried to organize and do battle with the Forces of Darkness that seemed Hell-bent -- or Hell driven -- into the conquest/destruction of the Earth. 

Of all these various and sundry organizations, only one had stood the test of more than two or three centuries. The Watcher's Council survived by being diverse and conservative at the same time. Each person had a job, a position, a place in life that gave them a role in the war. Of all those affiliated with the Council, only a handful were Watchers -- most were mages, magicians, warlocks, wizards, witches and warriors with ranks broken by the odd demon or prophet here and there; these front lines were supported by hordes of researchers and students who loved nothing more than to be buried in the well-lit, de-ionized and hermetically sealed, magically warded and elegantly appointed archives where the vast libraries of arcane, occult and supernatural knowledge was protected. Special agents and a few of the more esoteric religious orders vied with those who taught the Watcher's their trade for the most eccentric of the group. This tapestry created a small army that pushed back the darkness year by year. As with most things, some years were better than others. 

This had been a very good year. It really was a shame they had lost both Slayers. 

But despite everything, arrogance and old-fashioned elegance were their creed and coat of arms. 

Still, Cordelia was surprised when she found out that Watcher's Keep was really a Keep, in that medieval castle type way. And although it was not truly big castle as castles went, Watcher's Keep was still impressive. 

Cordelia really loathed finding anything of the Watcher's impressive. Especially something Quentin Travers took pride in. 

Giles had barely spoken since his parting comment to Quentin, but that older man had filled the gap of silence with an endless stream of prattle that had annoyed Cordelia to the point she wished she were back in High School listening to Principal Snyder. 

Yeah. It was that bad. 

"Watcher's Keep will be your home now. Giles, Wesley, your old rooms await you. Miss Chase, because your case is somewhat...unique...we will temporarily allow you to room in the apprentice's suite next to Mr. Giles. He will see to getting you outfitted properly. The Council will spare no expense, no expense at all for you Miss Chase." 

Cordelia raised her eyebrow slightly. _Well, they certainly know the way to a girl's heart, don't they?_

Giles looked a little worried about her enthusiastic smile. 

Travers was still talking. "Again, since your situation is unique, and will grow to be more so with each passing day, feel no pressure to comport or outfit yourself as a Watcher. You will be something quite different, I think." 

The man was positively gleeful as he lead them into Watcher's Keep, the towering gray stone wall making Cordelia wonder if she were being escorted into a concentration camp or something equally horrid. Except instead of making you work, they made you study and wear tweed. 

Just the idea made her shudder. 

Utterly exhausted, Cordelia noticed almost nothing about the keep as they were escorted to their rooms. She was stumbling along, barely able to keep her eyes open or really notice the Old World elegance saturating the Keep. Eventually, they came to the far south wing of the Keep where they would be staying. 

Travers walked off with Wesley, still rambling glibly while she and Giles were shown to their rooms. Remarkably well appointed, even her small apprentice's quarters had a large bed, refreshments -- and everything else a four star hotel would provide a guest. 

The bathroom was even better. The hot tub dominated the room, but the large sink and vanity mirror competed rather well for ownership of the room. As good as the hot tub might feel, Cordelia wanted sleep more. 

Giles poked his head into her room through the door adjoining them, adjusting his glasses. "Yes, well...goodnight, Cordelia. Sleep well, and remember...you cannot trust these people. At all." 

"Didn't you used to be one of these people?" She asked a little more acidly that she had meant to. 

"I got over it." 

Cordy chuckled a little over that. "Good." 

"Quite a good show this afternoon. I'm glad you proved me right about bringing you here. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself, and us." 

Even dead-tired, flattery could make Queen C beam and preen like a cat. "Of course I am. You know, I can almost see why Buffy and Faith get off on this beating people down thing. But I'll leave it to them. It looks really hard on your wardrobe." 

She paused a moment before looking the Watcher straight in the eyes. "I won't let them buy me. I'll let them wine me, dine me, and I'll let them spoil me rotten in the manner in which I have soooo earned by being dragged here, but I will still be in your corner." 

Giles smiled. "Sleep well, Cordelia." 

He closed and locked the door behind him. 

She started to strip, but only got as far as peeling her jeans off before she collapsed on the bed, asleep before she finished falling. 

~ * ~ 

"Isn't this splendid! I always like to see families doing things together, especially when a single parent is involved!" Clapping his hands and smiling widely, Richard Wilkins strode around his desk to carefully regard the three members of the McClay family, who stood awkwardly in the center of his brightly lit office. "And prompt too. I sent the call out for recruits just a few days before my Ascension! This is delightful!" 

The patriarch of the three, a tall -- gaunt man who had neglected to give a first name to his receptionist -- merely nodded in response. "Family is important to us." His flat, gravelly voice had the clipped and stretched sound of a suppressed country accent. "And the Old Blood runs deep in our womenfolk. That's why Donny and I brought Tara." 

Wilkins turned his gaze from the two men to the blonde girl cowering behind them, doing everything she could not to be noticed. "Come over here, Tara. I don't bite, I promise." 

She was rather beautiful, in a pale, vulnerable way, her large eyes and full mouth giving her a pouty, almost childlike expression that was made all the more evident by the frail confidence not daring to show itself in the face of three men. Obviously emotionally battered and repressed, her shoulders were slumped and her worn and unflattering clothes hung like rags on her. 

But the Old Blood ran deep in her, like her father had said. There were depths of power to this girl no one had dared plumb, much like that charmingly shy young redhead that his Faith often spoke of with teasing fondness. 

But this fear of herself and everyone around her...that would not do, not at all. 

Each timid step forward, the former Mayor devoured the fear in her eyes even as he smiled brightly. "Come on now, sit." He patted a chair that scooted across the floor towards his gesturing hand. "Relax. You and I are going to be doing a lot of work together, and that means we should get to know each other a little better, don't you think?" 

His hand brushed along her hair, just avoiding touching her cheek. "So, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" He paused, looking back up at the two men speculatively. They could be useful later, but right then they were a hindrance to bringing this poor, frightened girl out of her shell! 

Her brother, Donny seemed to have a lot of unchanneled aggression. A good thing for a boy his age, but the Mayor was confident he could find a constructive way to channel that anger. But the father...ahh, the father. There was a man who had a personal power and presence that Richard Wilkins could admire. A quick question or two should set this whole situation aright and he could get back to the serious task of healing this poor girl and bringing her into the larger Sunnydale family that he had been building for a century. 

He would have a word with those two later about how to treat a lady. A polite and understanding word, of course. They had been doing their level best to help a budding mage along her path to some modicum of control and without arcane knowledge themselves, and imposing a higher order of discipline was the logical and reasonable course of action. And as her family, they would of course try to help. 

"Mr. McClay, have you ever served in the military?" 

Nodding slightly, the man shrugged. "Some." 

Wilkins nodded. "Good, good. Why don't you and your son go find the new chief of my personal security force and talk with him about jobs? Recent events have made me eager to hire new hands -- and I'm just not content with vampires anymore. You are staying while Tara is here, aren't you? He didn't wait for them to answer. "I thought so. Like you said, family _is _important." His rich brown eyes caught them both in a sharp stare. "Go on and talk to Mike. He'll help you get situated. I know you'll both do just fine." 

The aide by the door smiled politely and led the two men into the foyer. Wilkins almost sighed, missing his old office more and more; but soon enough the mansion would be ready and they would have a place that was better than his modest home; barely fourteen bedrooms, after all. Not hardly enough for what he intended.

Turning back to the timid witch, the Demon Lord sighed as he sat down on the edge of his desk, feeling very morose. He missed Faith. Not only would she have kept him from having to deal with the two male McClays, but she would have already had Tara smiling and laughing and willing to talk with her easy humor and frank speech. And who could say no to those flashing dark eyes, so guarded and so vulnerable at the same time? 

No, he could recruit a thousand troops, clergy and magic-wielders and have them trained to a fair-thee-well and he would never replace the loss of that one, special girl. 

"Tell me, Tara, do you like picnics? I know a lovely spot."   


**Chapter Eleven: Morning People**

"Well, you see...um, Mr. Travers, I, well, I really don't think Miss Chase is much of a morning person." Wesley jogged down the hall after Quentin Travers, more than a little surprised that the rotund little man was outdistancing his longer stride. In his arms were a bundle of clothes for Cordelia, and behind him, one of the SiT's had a second bundle that she struggled to keep balanced while trying to keep up with the two older men. 

Laughing, Quentin shrugged. "My dear Mr. Windham-Pryce, Miss Chase's preferences really have very little to do with the situation. I have confidence that with time she will adapt and adjust to the realities of her new situation quite well." 

The dark stone hallways of Watcher's Keep were lined with imperfectly jury rigged fluorescent light that flickered from time to time, as if the stone itself were reminding the inhabitants that the Keep was meant more for torches and candles than for computers and technology. Modern sealants and insulation kept the worst of the fog from condensing into water, but there was still a humid morning chill that pervaded everything. 

Outside frosted glass windows, the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon and send slender razor-edged rays of light through the fog, like scalpels of sunshine slicing away the dawn to make way for morning. 

Quentin stopped outside Cordelia's room, and took a deep breath while Wesley rushed to catch up, but before he could raise his hand to knock, the door swung open. 

Cordelia certainly didn't look happy to be awake, but she was dressed and her hair was slicked back with water. She gave Quentin a once-over before harumphing in his general direction. Studiously ignoring Wesley, she leveled a cold gaze of sharp needles at the Slayer-in-training. 

"What is _she _doing here?" 

Again, Wesley wondered how Cordelia had learned to put that much scorn into a single sentence. He felt it should have broken at least _one_ law of physics. 

"Miss Drummond is here at my request, Miss Chase. After your...er...encounter last night, I felt that I should arrange a more formal introduction." With dramatic flair that would have done Spike or Angelus proud, Travers stepped into a courtly bow, gesturing to both women. "Cordelia Chase, this is Marcia Drummond, the most senior of our Slayers-in-training." 

Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "You mean she's almost into puberty?" 

The warning growl in Marcia's throat didn't throw Cordy for an instant. "Listen, princess, it's too early in the morning for your hormones to get in my way. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm dressed worse than Willow Rosenberg ever dreamed and I'm broke. I want coffee, breakfast, and new clothes. If you want me to put you down again, I will. Are we clear?" 

Marcia stepped up, towering over Cordelia, her tank top and jeans showing off rippling muscles and a powerful build to good effect. Her blue eyes flashed with barely restrained annoyance. The bundle of clothes awkwardly balanced in her arms did make it a little harder to look intimidating, but somehow, she managed. 

"Listen, bitch, this is the rule. I'm in charge of all the girls. I'm pretty damn sure that means you, unless you're just a really pretty fag. So if you think you..." 

She never got to finish; Cordelia grabbed the clothes from her arms with a groaning sigh. "Uh! Just shut up already and let me change! And someone get me some coffee? I thought castles had room service or something!" 

The door slammed in Marcia's face. 

Almost before she could blink, the door swung back open and Cordy reached out to grab the clothes from Wesley's arms with a sugar-coated smile. "Why thank you, Wesley." 

Marcia took a step forward only to have the door slammed in her face again. 

Shaking her head, the tall girl took a deep breath and gathered herself to kick in the door, her eyes flashing in anger. "That fucking bitch is going to...." 

A polite cough interrupted her for the second time that morning. "I would think that a Slayer would try to consider a situation with rational thought instead of anger. Anger breeds carelessness and..." Giles took a sip of his tea and gestured to Wesley. 

"And a careful Slayer is a live Slayer." 

Giles gave a small nod from where he was leaning against the wall a few yards down the hall. "I suspected that something like this might happen, but I had also hoped your better sense would prevail, Quentin." 

Quentin never got a chance to speak. Tired of being interrupted, Marcia strode towards Giles with murder in her eyes. "Listen old man, I do what I please when I please. And when your little bitch of a Slayer dies in that hospital, or the blonde chit is eaten by her vampire fuck-toy then it'll be my turn and I'll..." 

Giles walked right past her, shrugging at Quentin. "I see you keep the trainees appraised of the active Slayer's circumstances. I suppose that could be helpful." 

Looking over his shoulder, Giles smiled gently at Marcia. "I don't think you'll do much of anything. The Hellmouth would take your anger and feed it back to you while you died screaming. The best Slayers know patience and they know control. Forgetting those is what brought Faith to lie in a hospital bed and Buffy to be betrayed by Angelus. Buffy learned from her mistake. I hope Faith will. You probably won't." 

At first his smile hadn't reached his eyes but even they softened a bit. He really couldn't blame this child. She had been molded. _Blame the maker, not the clay,_ he decided. "Still," He amended slightly, continuing to walk away, "hope springs eternal, now doesn't it?" 

~ * ~ Cordelia took a deep breath as she shut the door behind her. 

_Okay...now I'm as crazy as Buffy._

Throwing the second bundle of clothes on the bed, she shook her head and let out a shaky breath. "That was stupid, Chase. Blondie can break you six ways from Sunday and you go and piss her off. Stop acting like Xander and start thinking!" 

Rifling through the clothes, Cordy alternated between making noises of approval and snorting in disgust, but she did manage to put together a decent outfit. Dark blue designer jeans that were almost a size too small and a silk blouse in a deep shade of a sapphire. To her delight, there was also a pair of thick socks and patent leather boots that matched the black leather duster. 

A few minutes with a hairbrush and the small make-up kit included in the bundle she had gotten from Wesley made her presentable and feel almost human. She still needed coffee though. 

_Where am I going to get good coffee in England? Do they even know what Coffee is? Giles is always drinking tea..._

Pacing pack and forth in front of the door, Cordy thrust her hands into the pockets of the duster, warming her hands up. _They could have at least given me some gloves._

She really hadn't realized how cold she had been until she had gotten dressed. She had awoken shivering much earlier than she normally did, and although a hot shower had gone a long way warming her up, there was still a chill in her bones that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. Still, hot coffee could do a lot, especially for her. 

Clenching her fists, her fingers wrapped around a wad of stiff and crinkly paper. Pulling out large wads of English currency from both pockets, Cordelia smiled to herself. 

"Looks like this thing didn't get sent through the wash before they brought it to me. I wonder whose it was?" 

Even ask she asked the question, she realized that the only women's clothing the Watcher's Council probably owned was either tweed or apparel that had once belonged to a Slayer or Slayer-in-training. _And the Council inherited their clothes when they died?_

"Oh....eww...I'm wearing some dead girl's clothes? Please tell me they were at least washed first?" Cordy looked up at the ceiling as she shoved the money back into her pockets. "Talk about blood money." 

This time when she shivered it wasn't from the cold. 

A heavy knock sounded on the door, and Drummond's voice raked up her spine likes nails on chalkboard. "Hey bitch, aren't you dressed yet? I know it takes awhile to hide your face, but hurry up!" 

Cordy sneered at the door. "And why don't you go curl up in a corner and lick yourself?" 

She wasn't brave enough to shout it back. 

Wishing she had her purse -- the one with her mace in it -- Cordelia reached for the doorknob. 

_You know what? This is all Buffy's fault._

_~ * ~_

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" 

Tara shook her head and smiled a bit as she followed Mayor Wilkins back to his office. In fact, she had more fun on the picnic than....well, ever. The Mayor had been charming and friendly, drawing her out with little jokes and compliments, and soon Tara had found herself talking quietly about herself, and more importantly her magic. 

Hugging herself, she shivered at the thought. Her magic. Her only joy in life...and her curse. The proof of the demon blood in her. Proof of her taint, that she wasn't right. That she was evil. 

But the Mayor didn't mind. When she had told him about the evil in her, he had smiled and taken her hand in his, his dark eyes staring into hers. 

"Tara, you are a lovely girl with a beautiful heart and a smile that just lights up a room! That can't be evil, now can it? And magic is just magic." His hand had waved expansively around the idyllic park they were picnicking at. "Magic is just a tool that people use. And evil is just a matter of opinion. If I kill a man for trying to kill me, then some people would consider me evil for taking his life. And others would think the man trying to kill me was evil." He smiled wider, shaking his head in amusement. "And all that is just silly anyway, because people would decide that without ever knowing why he had tried to kill me or why I had killed him." 

Then he had let go of her hand and looked at her seriously. "But enough of fairy tales. This is the life you deserve. Sunshine and summer breezes, eating barefoot in a park being proud of who and what you are. Now the world is a mean place, and we all have to earn what we deserve. How would you like to earn all this," he leaned back against a tree and gestured at the park again, "and freedom from your family? Freedom from your 'taint'? Because I, lovely Tara, can help you discover the beautiful and happy girl that's inside you just waiting to get out!" 

Tara had wanted to answer, to tell this warm and open man that yes she would help him and yes she would let him help her, but he had shushed her with a shrug and another smile. 

"It's a big decision, you know, to do something like this. I want you to come home with me, and get a good night's rest. Sleep on it and think about. Talk with your father and call your friends if you need to! Then tomorrow afternoon, go shopping. Buy some nice clothes and some nice things of your own, and think about it some more." 

"B-But, I don't have any f-friends." Tara had stuttered quietly, staring at the ground, her lank blonde hair hiding the shame etched on her face. That had thrown the Mayor a bit -- how could a lovely girl like her be so completely alone? Sometimes, this world just simply disgusted him! 

"Well..." He had said slowly, "I could loan you some of mine"' He paused, and shook his head with a sigh, "No. Not your type really. Hmm...we'll just have to make you some then. Not literally make of course. I'm sure someone like you could get yourself a little clique of pals in no time. However...tomorrow at dinner...." 

Wilkins sighed again, once again truly missing Faith. She would have known what to say, or do. 

"Tomorrow at dinner, then you can tell me what you want to do." 

Then he had hugged her like she was someone important to him. It was the best hug Tara had felt since her mother had died, leaving her warm and fuzzy inside with a smile on her face. Helping her up, he had led her back towards his office. 

Now, they were walking inside, where her father was sitting on a couch next to her brother in the lobby. Her looked up to regard her with his sharp eyes, and Tara shrank back behind the mayor, remembering she hadn't put her shoes back on. Her father had always said it was 'uncouth' for an unmarried woman to walk about barefoot. It meant she was too carefree, and too free with herself. 

She felt her face going red and stuttered excuses dying on her lips as her father stood, obviously angry. "Tara, it's time for us to go back to the hotel now." 

Donny stood behind their father, glowering at her as if he were angry too. It was always very bad when both Donny and father were angry. 

Wilkins smiled and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Indeed it is. Don't worry, Mr. McClay, Tara will be quite safe with me tonight. I've invited her to my home for awhile. She and I have a lot to discuss come tomorrow evening, and she needs plenty of time to think about it all!" 

It was times like this that he most missed his Faith. She could have already escorted the two of them back to the hotel and been ready to take Tara off his hands. As it was, he would have to wait for nightfall before giving her over to...hmm....well, who she would go with would take a bit of thought. 

Tara and the Mayor watched her father and brother stalk out of the office, both shooting lingering glares over their shoulders. 

Looking thoughtful, the Mayor turned to his receptionist. "Madeline, would you please call Doc and have him come pay me a house call? I think I'll need his services here soon." 

~ * ~ 

Shadows fell across his desk as the bright sky outside turned as black as Angelus' heart. Wilkins sighed and looked up from his paper work, and rolled his eyes. 

"Well, at least you waited until the girl left." 

The shadows invaded the study, cloaking everything in an inky darkness broken by the gray light around various magical items scattered throughout the room. A slowly creeping chill spread through everything and thick white fog rose from the carpet to swirl around the mayor's ankles. The dampness spread through his socks and his pants, making him shiver. 

**You failed yesterday.**

It wasn't so much a voice as much as it was a presence in his mind that sent emotions and images running through him. Smothering pressure and the scent of ash filled his nose as the voice echoed in his skull like the basso thrum of a kettle drum. 

"Failure is such a harsh word. I still Ascended and I still killed everyone you said needed to die. And I captured the Slayer's pet vampire." 

**In that, and that alone you have done well. But you were not meant to remain interred in the mortal coil this long. A demon lord you may be and a warlock you may have been, but invincible you are not.**

Each word made his joints ache as the air shuddered with silent thunderclaps. The presence did not belong there, in his office or in this realm, and the fabric of what was reality in the world of Earth fought against it being there. 

Hissing a sigh through clenched teeth, the Mayor stood with an exasperated shake of his balding head. Just what was with these immortal powers, anyway? Didn't they pay attention to his monthly reports? He sent them in for a reason, not just because procedure recommended them! 

"Invincibility was never the goal. You know, I don't understand why you people keep wanting ultimate power. Ultimate this, ultimate that. Total destruction of the world....we _feed_ off the world, off the pain, the hate, the blood. That's why I most often employ vampires, magic-uses and Slayers. They all understand that until humans rise above their limitations and blindness, they are food and pawns to be played." 

**Then like your minions, you are a fool. Humans are made blind to what lies beyond sight for a reason. Otherwise, they are dangerous; unpredictable and capable of gaining immense power. Much like yourself. Corrupting a Slayer is an impressive achievement, yes, but still paltry compare to what yet remains for you to do.**

The chill of the otherworld deepened around him, causing frost to rim the edges of his glasses and his window. 

The Mayor sighed and shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee. "Ugh! Do you always have to make everything so cold? You always ruin my coffee!" 

**Do not mock me!**

Cold air rushed into the room, causing the wood of his desk to creak and groan in protest as his coffee turned to ice crystals in his mug. Sighing, Wilkins looked up. 

"That's the problem with long term plans. There's always something that remains to be done." 

**Since your failure has trapped you in the mortal coil, plans will change. I will send my children and my messengers to you. You will shelter and nurture them and help them come into their own. Teach them the mortal world. Make them part of it. Make them part of your plans and your manipulations, and I will allow you to remain part of mine.**

A feeling like an oil slick running through his body passed over him as the shadow's deepened, the air humming and crackling with dark forces gathering to let him 'hear' the presence. 

"As if I could stop you? You're moving too fast, but that's never bothered you. Why don't you go take a hot bath or whatever it is you do to relax and let me handle things? Trust me, a good, long vacation can do wonders for the soul and can help you regain focus! You really are testy today!" 

**My instructions are clear. Patience is irrelevant. This shall happen at the appointed time.**

"You're wrong. Patience has been the only saving grace we've had. Careful planning and even more careful action is all that will let us win." 

**They will come to you. Do as you are instructed and then proceed as you see fit. But do not fail me twice.**

The Mayor nodded slowly. "Sure. Keen idea."   
  



	6. AS6 A Wiccan and a Slayer

**Ascension's Shadow**   
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

**by: alan m rogers**

**Author's Note:  This is an Alternate Universe Fanfiction that takes place directly after Graduation Day part II. I am writing the Buffyverse as a very dark, unpleasant place, and taking certain hints the show gave us and making them worst-case scenarios. Because of this there are a few minor changes in the paradigm you might want to know before reading: 1) Xander is already living in the basement -- the show is not clear on when he actually started living there, but I'm putting him there already 2) Buffy did not get accepted to college 3) the Watcher's Council did not roll over, play dead, and meekly accept the resignation of one of the most successful Slayers. **

**Rating: R, for graphic violence and some sensuality/sexuality**

**Disclaimer: I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., the United Paramount Network, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here that have legal rights to aforementioned series.**

**All Original Characters (Charlie, Auric Ward, Kevin Mitchell, etc.) are the sole property of myself, Alan M Rogers.**

**This is a work of fiction. Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken. My apologies in advance to any who may be offended by my warping of history and culture.**

**Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction; Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be to create a wild Alternate Universe; to Gee, for endless support and actually finishing her series.**

**Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be.**

**Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye. But when Buffy is given a new Watcher , things start going from bad to worse.**

**Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: The Wiccan**

Willow waited inside until they had stopped shouting to quietly creep outside into the sunlight. Every time she felt rays of warm sunshine on her face, she smiled. The sunlight was their refuge, their time when the monsters had to sleep. 

But that early afternoon sunlight fell on a face streaked with tears. 

_I wonder what monsters hunt Slayers and witches during the day? Because I'd sure like to face one of them instead of this._

It hadn't taken her parents long to walk outside to 'talk' after Buffy and Willow had finished explaining; and it hadn't taken long after that before the shouting started. After almost half an hour, Buffy had snuck out the back door, citing that she had to go find Giles. Willow knew she was right; they needed Giles, and finding him, they might find Wesley and Cordy. 

They were both too afraid to think that the disappearances might _not_ be linked.

She stepped through the familiar red door, her lips pressed tightly together as if that would hold the sobs and the impending babble-attack at bay, her fingers nervously playing with her hair. Willow knew what was coming, and she knew it was her fault. It had been her decision, and she had made the wrong one. 

Her sneaker-clad foot lightly touched down on the concrete porch, and she stared out, to meet the stricken eyes of her father. Locking eyes with his daughter for a long moment, he shook his head once before looking at his feet, his shoulders slumped in that way only a truly defeated man can hold himself. His gaze swept along the cracked sidewalk, gradually raising to watch her get in the car and leave. 

The sound of keys brought Willow's tear-blurred green eyes around to watch her mother climb into Ira's beloved sportscar and close the door with an emphasis that made the word 'metaphor' take on new levels of meaning, none of them good. The engine growled like one of the hell-spawned predators the sunlight held at bay as the sportscar carried her mother away in it's innards, propelled away by the fiery explosions of gasoline and electricity. 

Willow didn't remember her knees giving out, or falling towards the ground. She didn't remember her father catching her and cradling her like he had done every night when she had been a toddler in diapers. 

She did remember that her mother hadn't even looked at her. 

She did remember that her mother hadn't even said good-bye. 

"I'm sorry..." Willow whispered to her father, pressing her face into his shoulder, trying to hide that she was crying. She didn't want to cry, not this time. 

"Oh, god no, Willow. Don't be sorry. Don't be. Please." Ira paused and held his daughter at arm's length, meeting her eyes firmly. "This has nothing to do with you. It has to do with your mother and I. We've been wrong, about how we do things with you. How we try to raise you....

"I'm not going to try to change what you are now, whatever that may be, but I feel deep inside if I had been there more, you might have been Jewish, not Wiccan." 

Willow's mouth worked, but no sounds came out. Brushing her father's hands away, she stumbled backwards. 

"W-what? Is this what this is? She's l-leaving because I'm not Jewish? How can you...? How can she...? Don't you believe me? Believe us? Haven't you listened? Haven't you seen? Don't you know what this gods-forsaken place _is_? We told you the truth! Buffy is the Slayer and I'm a witch and Giles is a watcher and Xander helps us out and he's been shot and Wesley, the Watcher who was Buffy's Watcher after Giles got fired is missing and Cordelia is missing and Xander has been shot and you don't believe me and mom left and all you can say is that you wish I was **_Jewish_**?" 

His arms twitching like he was going to reach out for her again, Ira shook his head, shouting before he thought better of it. "No! This is only the smallest bit about that! But I have to start small and work my up this, Willow! I love you, and may God strike me down if I lie! You are my daughter, and because of that _I believe you!_ I am willing to believe that vampires and demons exist and that I'm standing in a city that can become the mouth to Hell anytime some demon gets a wild hair up his ass! I am even willing to believe that your friend Buffy has been born for the express purpose of killing supernatural evil! All because you are my daughter and I trust you!" 

Shaking his head, Ira wrung his hands and stared at the ground, his voice softening on each word. 

"Never once have I doubted you! Never once have I ever stopped loving you! But I simply did not know, Willow! I had no idea of what I was doing to you, not until we rode back from the police station. I am not a superman. I am a man who made mistakes, and who wants to fix them, but who doesn't know how. I love you, Willow Rosenberg, and I want to make things right between us." 

Tentative hesitation etched in every line of his body, Ira took a small step towards his daughter. 

Mouth trembling, Willow's drew back into herself, shrinking away. "You...you believe me?" 

Letting his daughter fall into his arms, Ira ran his fingers through her silken red hair, and nodded. "Yes, I do. And I want to help, any way you want me to." 

This time, he whispered. 

Drawing away again, Willow hugged herself, staring off at where the car used to be parked. "Then why...?" 

This time, Ira was the one to sink to the ground. In a small voice, he answered. "Your mother thinks you and Buffy are delusional or liars, and either way, she knows you burned down the school." 

Choking back a sob, Willow swallowed back her tears with the large lump settling in her throat and the bile that had rushed to her mouth. "W-why..." She took a deep breath and started again. "Why do you believe and she doesn't?" 

Ira didn't look up, or even make an attempt to stand. "It's simple, really. I'm a scholar; I think things through and determine how and why they work, and then if I can, I take them apart to prove it. Your mother is a psychologist. Everything you and Buffy told us in there makes her think you're...deluded and hysterical from fear of 'the mob' or some other more mundane threat. I can see the threads of logic and the plausibility in this, at least enough to give you the benefit of the doubt." 

Willow felt her stomach clench and burn as her head spun. "I need to sit down." 

Her father caught her for a second time. 

"I think you already are." 

"Oh." Willow breathed. "Yay me." 

~ * ~ 

Hospitals had never bothered him that much. He had been in a few for his share of accidents, and he had visited close friends and family who were dying or worse while they lay in hospital beds, but every time he came inside and breathed in the scents of human sickness and bleach mingling in a nauseating bouquet of science battling nature, he felt almost comfortable. 

Except this time. 

Slipping inside the room where Faith lay comatose, he looked around at the dim lighting and stared at the cords and tubes keeping her alive, the rhythmically hushed hissing of her breathing underscoring the overstated beeping of an EKG. Elegantly arranged flowers and stuffed animals decorated the room, clashing with a battered leather jacket hanging haphazardly off one corner of the chair next to her bed. 

But it was the deep stillness of the room that made his stomach flutter. 

"You know, I'm a nice guy who strives to be polite and set a good example of manners and civility, but you just barging in here really makes me kinda testy. This is a sick room for a very hurt girl, not a zoo exhibit for a Watcher with no Slayer." 

St. Clair would have sworn that the man had not been there when he had walked into the room. He was an unassuming man in his middling years with thinning hair he made no effort to disguise and an out of fashion suit that somehow still looked good on him. Out in the daylight, he would have been one more businessman out and about his work, seen to be nothing more or nothing less than another passerby. 

Looking into his eyes, however, made the darkness that much heavier and the air that much colder. His eyes were a subtle, gentle kind of threat that slid inside the psyche like a surgeon's scalpel slicing open the skin. His gaze pried you open while his ingenuous smile relaxed you, making you feel right at home. 

"Mayor Wilkins, I presume." St. Clair spoke, his clipped London accent, drawing out the last syllables as if he were narrating Masterpiece Theater. 

"Former mayor, Mr. St. Clair. And this lovely and misunderstood young lady is Faith Wilkins." He paused long enough to stare into St, Clair's eyes again. "Faith. Such a beautifully ironic name, don't you think, Andrew?" 

Coughing slightly, St. Clair nodded almost imperceptibly. "Well, yes. I suppose it is at that." 

The Mayor's hand reached down to brush aside an errant lock of dark hair. "The Dark Slayer, they call my girl. No one believed in her, or saw who she was behind that tough-girl exterior." Smiling wistfully, he ran his fingers across her cheek. "Did you know that she used to lay around in her bed, eating licorice and reading comic books?" 

St. Clair shook his head, raking his hand through his dark hair. "No, I didn't. There isn't much on her in our files, you see." 

With an incredible and astounding tenderness, the Mayor of Sunnydale went about adjusting her covers and pillows until the expression on her face eased ever-so-slightly. 

"I think the room you want is down the hall. They'll eventually come see him, and that will be as good a time as any to tell them who you are." 

Staggered with shock, St. Clair braced himself against the doorjamb. "How did you know?" 

"Andrew, it's my job to know what goes on in this town, supernatural or mundane. And the departure of Rupert Giles and Wesley Windham-Pryce was both very disappointing and extremely encouraging. They were both good men, and good adversaries. You, on the other hand, are proof that the Watcher's Council is going to make this easier than I thought." 

St. Clair narrowed his eyes at Wilkins, fingering the small leather pack he kept in his jacket pocket. "Why aren't you killing me?" 

The former warlock looked up at him, honestly surprised. "Why would I?" 

~ * ~ 

Somehow, she had connived not having to put her shoes back on. 

It seemed like a small, silly thing. Something trivial that an eighteen-year-old woman wouldn't worry about, or even do. For the most part walking around the city barefoot was often considered the domain left to hippies and hobos? 

But there was something simply fun about it, too. 

Smiling lightly, and for the first time since early childhood, unselfconsciously, Tara sat on the grass in the small park next to Sunnydale General hospital, reading a Mercedes Lackey novel Wilkins had bought her. She was leaning against an ancient tree, her toes curled around warm summer grass. She knew she was probably getting her new skirt and blouse dirty, but she also knew the mayor wouldn't mind. He liked it when she did silly little small things that were simply fun. His eyes would light up and sometimes he would even hug her. 

And the best part was that her father wasn't even allowed to get mad when she was 'wantonly carefree'. 

Stretching just a little, she settled back against the old oak, letting it's subtle strength mingle with the gentle energy the sun seeped into her bones, easing away aches and pains she had barely been aware of and replacing them with a warmth and comfort that bled the tension right out of her. Pressing one hand to the ground, her fingertips dug into the soft loam beneath them, her eyes drifting closed as the thrumming heartbeat of the world around her echoed in her ears, matching pace with her own pulse in a symphonic harmony no orchestra would ever be able to match. 

With a deep breath in, she could feel everything around her, from each blade of grass soaking in the sunlight and drinking the carbon dioxide she exhaled, thin membranes of chloroplasts filtering pollutants and impurities, converting it into energy and oxygen that she drew in, filling her lungs and recharging that part of herself buried so deep she rarely allowed herself to feel. 

Every insect, from the quietly chirping crickets to the spider lost in the artistic rapture of weaving a new web, and every bird, from the sparrow comfortably napping to the pigeon curiously wondering if she had any bread. 

It was utter acceptance. It was peace. 

"Wow." The voice was soft, and almost as timid as her own. 

Blinking against the sunlight, Tara saw her first as a blur surrounded by a halo of glittering red streamers tugged by a breeze she had probably inadvertently summoned. As her vision and thoughts cleared, she shrank back against the tree, drawing her knees to her chest, trying to hide her bare feet under the hem of her skirt. 

It took several attempts and several deep breaths, but she finally was able to stutter out a simple question. "W-wow?" 

The petite redhead nodded, and whispered again. "Wow. I could never do _anything _like that." 

Something about her delicate face falling into an expression Tara had seen in the mirror every morning tugged, or rather, yanked at something in her gut. She saw the telltale flushed cheeks and puffy eyes that meant the girl had been crying a lot. Even now, her large green eyes were threatening to spill over. Tara found herself enchanted by those green eyes, silently wondering where the laughter and joy that belonged there had gone. 

"Like what?" 

Excitement rushed through her as she realized she had said a complete phrase without stuttering in fear once. Her voice had sounded soft, concerned, and she hadn't stuttered! 

_M-maybe she could sit with me for a minute? I'm supposed to talk to my friends, but I don't really have any except for him..._

"Falling into it that way. I have to fight to touch it, to know it's there." The redhead hugged herself, hanging her head in what could have been shame, or heart-deep pain. Or both. "I think I should go now." 

Her voice was a muffled whisper that Tara had to strain to make out. 

"No..no...y-you don't h-have to. You can sit w-with me, and I can show you!" Her hand reached out of it's own accord, fingertips outstretched in a silent plea not to leave her sitting by herself. Hearing how she sounded, and knowing that the girl would _never_ want to stay now, Tara bent her head, her arm drooping a little. "If y-you want..." 

The redhead seemed to brighten just a little bit. "You don't mind?" 

Tara looked up into her eyes, hearing the unspoken emotions, a need for something right then that maybe they could help each other with. "No. I don't." 

The redhead took her hand, palms touching with the simple comfort of skin on skin as she sat down next to Tara, close enough they were almost touching. 

"W-why don't you t-take off your shoes?" 

Looking a little embarrassed and a little awkward, she sheepishly pulled off her sneakers and her socks, and found herself hugging her knees much like Tara was. 

"Why do I need to be barefoot?" The redhead asked, her brow furrowing. 

Tara smiled sheepishly and ducked her head. "So I wouldn't feel so silly." 

"Oh." There was silent pause that was comfortably awkward and ended with Tara squeezing the other girl's hand as the redhead turned to look at her new friend. "What now?" 

Breathing deep, Tara steadied herself, slowly forming each word to keep her stutter away. "Close your eyes." 

Tara slid behind her and rested her free hand on the back of the redhead's neck, her light touch almost a caress. She marveled at the silk-soft hair and skin, warm under her fingertips. 

This time she didn't go as deep. She let the other girl feel the first touches of the world around her on her mind, whispering to her with her own thoughts. _Don't fight. Surrender. The power isn't yours, you just want to borrow it. Use it._

The slight link between the two deepened another level, and names were no longer a mystery. They were just there, in the other's thoughts. 

_Tara McClay_

_Willow Rosenberg_

Next was emotion. Tara, full of nervousness and tense angst, fear and desperation for acceptance. Willow, a knot of pain and anguish needing to be soothed away, but like a cancer, it kept growing with every step forward. 

"Are you all right?" Tara whispered her question, her hand moving to rest on Willow's shoulder. 

"No." The wiccan shook her head. "But I have to go now." She stood and turned at the same time in a maneuver so clumsy and awkward it had a strange grace that allowed Willow's fingertips to brush Tara's cheek. 

"Thank you." 

The words meant more than just gratitude, but both of them were content to let the words stay where they were. 

Tara leaned back against her tree and stared up at the clear sky, and looked for the face of a petite redhead in the wispy clouds. 

~ * ~ 

Willow found the hospital to be very cold and harsh, especially after the warm grass and sunlight outside. _I don't know who she really is or what that was about. But I needed it. _

A tiny smile curled the corner of her mouth as thoughts whirled around her now almost clear-head, waking up emotions the fey blonde had put to sleep with her soft touch. Her whole body still tingled and thrummed from the brief connection to the magic. It had sang through her veins like it never had before, not even when she had Restored Angel's soul. 

Power still rushed through her, better than any drug or any high she could have in an addictive sweetness that filled her to the brim and begged to be released in a burst of creative light that would blind everyone around her. 

That was what being Wiccan meant; a connection to the world around you that transcended into a harmonious symbiosis that carried you into another level of thinking about and accepting the world. The strange witch had taken the edge of Willow's pain, just enough to let her think and react normally and Willow had given her a few brief moments of companionship. The girl had been there at the right place at the right time to give them both the opportunity to feel better. 

She didn't even have to look as she dodged through the hospital hallways, her instincts taking her to her best friend. 

Even if he couldn't hear her, she really needed to talk to him. Talking to Xander always helped, even if he was asleep. She had done it often enough as a child -- it hadn't been his fault she had told him everything while he was asleep. She had timed it that way, so he wouldn't mention whatever she had needed to talk about the next morning. 

Her hand wrapped around the doorknob, and she just _knew_. There was someone else in there with him, and Willow didn't know him. She could feel him -- dark, cold calculating. Not a doctor, or a nurse. A threat. 

Despair, hopelessness, depression...all of the darker emotions that had been plaguing her all day suddenly crumbled away, burnt to ash in the hot rush of anger. 

Anger that was cold, freezing out emotion and frosting her green eyes with a sheen of hard ice. 

Anger that was hot, consuming emotion and making her stomach boil. 

She knew that he was a threat. It hung around the room like a thunderhead about to rain on a picnic, laughing as life's simple pleasures were washed away by mother nature's bad timing. 

Gathering what was left of the power she had felt in the odd trance outside, she stepped inside, mentally berating herself for forgetting even a stake. Giles and Buffy would be furious with her. 

The man leaning over Xander was almost as tall as Wesley had been, but was lean, like Xander had been their sophomore year. Dark hair and dark eyes full of secrets beckoned her to take the next step inside. Charismatic and handsome, the stranger positively oozed intensity and arrogance. 

That, and his tweed suit gave him away. 

"New Watcher?" Willow practically spat the words. 

He nodded slowly, turning to face her. "Yes. A new Watcher. I am Andrew St. Clair." 

The door flew shut at his laconic gesture, his magic humming in the air, his arrogant display strumming the cords of power suffusing her inside and out. 

Her eyes narrowed. Two thoughts sprang to the front of her mind, neon signs flashing on the main street of Willow Roesenberg's cerebellum. 

_Something tells me he knows where Giles is. And I want to know what he thinks he's doing in Xander's hospital room._

The Watcher's Council had never been one of her favorite institutions, not since she had found out about some of what they expected a Slayer like Buffy to be. She met St. Clair's eyes with a razor-edged scowl, and his mind flowered open to her. There was no probing, nothing more than an awareness of him and what he was thinking. 

He wanted her. To take her into his hands, and to break her. Take away everything that made her Buffy Summers, one by one, and make her the Slayer. 

_No. I will not let you do this. I have to stop you. And someone needs to warn Buffy! How can I get to her? How can I warn her without taking him to_ _her._

_Damn it, this hero stuff is harder than it looks!_

Her mind ran through different possibilities of escaping, but one glance at Xander, laying prone in the hospital bed chased those ideas right out of her mind. And one thought of this pretentious Watcher laying his grubby paws on Buffy Summers, hurting her mind, body or spirit drove something in her over the edge. 

That cold rage ran like an avalanche through her blood as her eyes left his to stare at the floor for a minute. She knew what she wanted to do was wrong. She felt it in her bones. 

"I think we need to talk, Miss Rosenberg." 

His hand came up and he started to chant the words to a basic Truth and Binding Invocation -- a spell that would make her his creature, mind and body until something broke the link. Usually something fatal. Willow's eyes came up to meet his again, her face twisted into angry parody of her 'Resolve Face'. This was more like a 'I'm going choke you on your own innards' face. 

_Fine. You want to play with magic? You're mine, tweed-boy_. Licking her lips, Willow took a deep breath and grasped at her power. Like a storm of lightning bolts, it seared through her, hot and furious, ready to explode from her fingertips at any second. A single thought and Andrew St. Clair would be a bad case of Wesley Windham-Pryce deja-vu, forgotten in the next breath that blew his ashes to the wind. 

Sometimes the best thing to do wasn't always the right thing. 

The lights flickered, and a slight breeze scattered papers across the room. Standing in front of the door, Willow's green eyes flickered with fey light. Her hands were at her side but her palms were facing out. Tangible energy crackled around Willow as she faced St. Clair, smiling sweetly. 

"We do?"   


* * *

**Chapter Twelve: The Slayer**

Part of what a Slayer did was hunt; a Slayer was a huntress, a predator -- first a foremost, the desire to stalk and kill her prey sang in the blood of a Slayer each time she picked up a stake or walked into a graveyard. Buffy felt that as acutely as any, but it became worse for her when her friends were threatened. When her friends were in danger, the instinct sang in her blood like a mad composer's masterpiece concerto, taunting her with visions of vengeance and blood. 

The silence of a Slayer with her blood on fire is something that master vampires and demon lords alike listened for in the stillness of their inner sanctums, because that silence approaching behind them usually meant they were dead. 

It was with that silence and that deadly intent that Buffy prowled the sunlit streets of Sunnydale, her dark jeans and too small top making her appear nothing more than a teenage girl enjoying her summer vacation. But people didn't see her. Each step she took hinted at a sound or a motion, but the light grace that carried her towards her first stop seemed to meld her with her surroundings. 

She reached Angel's apartment quickly, trying to ignore the twinges of guilt burning in her stomach. She had left Willow alone, with her parents arguing outside, her oldest friend still unconscious, and her boyfriend MIA. 

_At least I'm trying to do something about the MIA part. But I have to find Giles. I have to. He'll know what to do, or who's out there making my Slayer-sense go haywire._

Angel opened the door before she could knock, shaking his head in rueful amusement. 

"I knew it would be you." His quiet voice always sent a thrill down her spine. Dark eyes found hers and drew her in, his gentle, almost sardonic smile causing her to smile back before she could even think about it. He left his while silk shirt unbuttoned, revealing a pale expanse of tautly muscled flesh. 

"How?" She whispered, stepping closer to him, her hand reaching up to rest her fingertips on his chest. His body was cold again, but she was warm every time she was close to him. Breathing in his scent of silk and leather, she resisted the urge to collapse into his arms. She couldn't afford to be comforted now; there would be time enough for that later, when everything was under control.

"When a Slayer is hunting most demons can feel it. A general feel of doom approaching from every direction and the panic that comes with it." He smiled again. "But I knew it was you, lover. I always know when it's you." 

His inscrutable eyes narrowed, and he stepped a little closer, blocking the doorway. "And I always know when something's up. What's going on?" 

Forcibly reminding herself that even if he had come back for her, things weren't all worked out and it was dangerous to even kiss him, no matter how much her lips could almost taste him. Running her tongue around her lips, she took a step back and set her shoulders. 

"Giles, Wesley, Cordelia and Oz have all disappeared. My Slayer-senses are off the scale and I can almost feel that impending doom. I'm going to need some back-up on patrol tonight." 

Angel nodded slowly. "It's covered. Just let me know about Giles and the others. I'll tell you if I find anything out of the ordinary." 

Breathing a slow sigh of relief, Buffy nodded. "Thank you. I'm going to Giles' place first, then Wesley's and Cordy's. I'm going to take Willow with me when I look for Oz, but something tells me he can take care of himself." 

Angel nodded grimly. "He's resourceful, I'll admit. A lot more so than I would have first guessed." 

Buffy frowned and tilted her head to one side, blonde hair draping over one bare shoulder. Was that chagrin she heard in his voice? "Yeah...it's kinda surprising the skills a guitarist can pick up places." 

She would have sworn Angel almost laughed as he shrugged away her comment. "How's Xander?" 

"Not so good." She let out a slow, frustrated breath. "They want to bring him around tomorrow morning, but they're not sure they can. He lost a lot of blood and they've had to wait to see if they can wake him up." 

"Right. I'll check on him tonight after patrol, make sure nothing nasty pays him a visit. Least I can do." 

Buffy was getting more and more confused. With each statement, Angel was getting more and more tense, and he hadn't even invited her inside. It seemed a small thing, but this was the first time in a long time he hadn't invited her in. Even after her birthday, he had always let her inside his sanctum, almost like a metaphor for what they still have between them. 

Butterflies dancing in her stomach, Buffy nodded. "Thanks. Are you okay?" Her fingertips ran down his chest, her heart-shaped mouth twisting into a concerned frown. 

"I'm fine, lover. Just a little tired." Grasping her hand tightly in his, his thumb stroked the back of her hand. "And if I'm going to patrol alone tonight, I need my rest. I'll find you later, I promise." 

Kissing the back of her hand, he slipped back into the darkness of his apartment and closed the door in her face. 

~ * ~ 

Daniel Osbourne frowned at the menu and wished he had taken French instead of German back in high school. He wasn't sure he trusted the man sitting across from him to order for them both. 

A waiter brought them their wine, and leaving the bottle, departed as silently as he had arrived. After the first perfunctory sip, the man across from him smiled broadly and gestured widely at him. 

"Now then, Mr. Osbourne, what brings you to England seeking a secret meeting with me of all people? Not that I'm not glad you came to me, I would assume you would naturally seek out Mr. Giles or Mr. Windham-Pryce before you would think of me." 

Ignoring his wine and setting aside the menu, Oz nodded to the well-dressed man. "You're more convenient." 

Stroking his beard and taking another sip of his wine, the older man shrugged. "Fair enough. Why are you in England, Mr. Osbourne?" 

Letting one corner of his mouth quirk up into a half-smile, Oz didn't even blink. "To talk to you." 

Just because he needed the pompous windbag didn't mean he had to make it easy on him. 

Obviously fighting to maintain a composure suited to the dim candlelight, fire-warmed ambiance of the French restaurant on the outskirts of downtown London, the older man conscientiously smoothed his napkin and straightened his silverware, taking deep, calming breaths. 

"Why do you need to talk to me?" 

The irritation in his voice made Oz's small smile grow a fraction of an inch. "Because the Mayor of Sunnydale isn't dead, and I'm working for him." 

Spluttering on a sip of wine, the gentleman lowered his glass with a trembling hand. "Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Osborne?" 

Oz nodded once, and leaned back in his chair nonchalantly, well aware of the attention his worn overlarge jeans and faded Ozzy Osbourne t-shirt provoked as his dyed hair and goatee came into the light filtering in from the window. "Mayor Wilkins is not dead, and he has geased me into working for him." 

This time, the other man drained his glass and poured himself another. Tugging nervously at the lapels of his coat, he stared hard at the young man. "I thought the Slayer dealt with that problem." 

"She did." Oz shrugged this time, "Buffy stopped the Ascension. But without help from the Council, she didn't have all the information. The Mayor is alive and is a demon lord, but he's trapped on Earth in a human body." 

Squaring his large shoulders and sitting a bit taller in his seat, the gentleman glared imperiously down at Oz. "That was Miss Summer's decision." 

"If you say so, Mr. Travers." Reaching into his pocket, Oz slid a carefully folded sheaf of yellowed paper towards the Watcher and stood up. 

"Thanks for the wine." 

Before he could get two steps, Travers gestured discreetly, and two men fell into either side of the guitarist. 

"My pleasure, Mr. Osbourne. My pleasure. Now if you would allow me to take care of your accommodations as well?" 

~ * ~ 

Some things never changed in Sunnydale, and the home of Rupert Giles seemed to have become one of those permanent monuments to the strangeness that permeated the California town. 

Her knuckles wrapped on the door five times. Buffy's hyper enhanced senses allowed her to hear the sound echo inside Giles' house while she waited for a response. Seconds later, she heard it. The sound of light footsteps on tile, then carpet as they approached the door, but each step was hesitant and quiet.

_Sounds like a woman's footsteps. Did Giles get laid last night and that's why no one can reach him?_ Even as she thought about it, she dismissed it. _He'd never not answer his phone, even if he was blowing a load. _

Blushing at her own crude thought, Buffy shrugged. _I can stab a blood-sucker in the heart with an overgrown toothpick and wade through knee deep demon gore but I blush at the thought of sex. How quaint of me._

_But the bottom line is that Giles isn't here._

Buffy Summers grinned coldly as her hand wrapped around the doorknob, thinking about the time Willow had told her about a spell that could unlock doors. _Glad to know the Slayer package comes complete with built-in lock picking powers._

She almost laughed. Whoever it was in Giles' house was waiting for her just inside the door. Buffy could smell leather and steel and assumed it was probably one of the longswords her watcher favored for bladed combat.

Her hand wrapped around the doorknob.

With a savagely controlled jerk, the door swung inward as Buffy's foot snapped up in a front kick that caught the woman under her ribcage, throwing her into the air to land in a gasping heap in the middle of the living room. Dark hair hid her face, but Buffy recognized the sword as the one Angel had pulled from Acathla.

"That's my sword, bitch."

Brandishing the blade, the woman stood and stared at Buffy. "I'm sure it is."

Buffy felt more than heard him. Lightning fast, she dropped into a spinning sweep that sent the wiry balance demon falling to his back with a solid thud. The woman looked up at Buffy just as she caught sight of Whistler.

Gaping in shock, the Slayer groaned. "Doesn't anyone stay dead anymore?"

* * *

**For those of you who know this story, this is a new ending to this chapter...hopefully, sometime by the end of Christmas break, I'll have some new stuff up here. I can't promise frequent updates, but I can promise that there will be new stuff more often.**

**Thanks,**

**~ alan m rogers**


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